


In the Heat of the Night

by FrankieMittens



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-21
Updated: 2013-01-02
Packaged: 2017-11-21 21:21:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 28,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/602202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrankieMittens/pseuds/FrankieMittens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was childish of Sherlock, of course it was. And yet John wasn't so surprised by his behaviour, not any more when the pain of parting had changed from cutting and tearing to a dull throbbing; a man so complex and eccentric - how could he have not behaved the way he did, after being given the open option to do so?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It was the end of a sweltering hot July. The city had seldom in its long history experienced such a heat wave, one which lasted and lasted and lasted ,not giving even the slightest promise of any kind of relief. At first it had been wonderful and extremely welcomed, then it got slightly tiring and annoying, and right about the time when the death rates of the old and the ill started to rise, people yearned for rain. The heat made everything muffled and heavy, and those who were fortunate enough to have some vacation had quickly escaped, leaving the streets of London if not empty, at least significantly more spacious than the inhabitants were used to.

Inside 221b Baker Street things were, however, much like normal. Sherlock seemed to have an uncanny ability to adapt himself to extreme thermal circumstances, and was little bothered by the continuously elevated temperature, very much as he had been oblivious to the inhumane coldness during the previous winter when their heaters had broken down. This could have been partly due to the fact that he didn't leave the flat all that often, and if he did it was during the hours when the sun didn't shine.

In the beginning of the hot period, when it had been still new and wonderful, John had - foolishly enough - inquired whether Sherlock didn't want to go out and enjoy the weather, now that it for once was worth enjoying. Sherlock's response had been a simple "no", accompanied by an expression which conveyed utter astonishment over the fact that John somehow assumed it would have been more enjoyable to him to waste time outside with obnoxious heat, brightness and an overload of people intoxicated with the sudden appearance of the shiny object on the sky than to succumb to whatever more or less scientific experiment he had going on. This had made it clear to John that Sherlock was not the type to pack up a basket and head to a picnic, and he had not asked any more.

He had himself, however, indulged for a while and spent a good deal of his time outside. During this time they didn't cross paths that often , and once the heat started to finally get to John he realised that he hadn't had a proper conversation with his eccentric flatmate for a good while. To his surprise almost, he found it slightly sad.

So it was with the intention of catching up with Sherlock that John went home that evening after an enjoyable dinner with a few of his old friends. When he arrived home he saw from the street that the light in the living room was on; also, atall, thin figure - that could have been no other than Sherlock - passed the window every now and then. Pleased that he had caught Sherlock at home, John went into the house.

When John entered he saw the detective sitting down, his back to him, hovering over something spread on the table. Sherlock was, as it had become customary to him during the hot season, dressed very lightly; he was wearing loose pants made out of some thin, light fabric with a somehow oriental touch to them and a pale grey t-shirt which accentuated his equally pale skin -– after all, he hadn't bothered spending too much time outdoors. One of the windows was slightly ajar, and the weak breeze had barely enough strength to move the curtains.

Without turning to him, Sherlock spoke with a quiet, husky voice - he sounded as if he hadn't been talking in days, which was probably true. "John. Nice dinner, I trust? How was the new Banana Tree?"

John knew better than to be surprised with the fact that Sherlock knew where he had been, but still couldn't help himself. "How did you know that? Do I smell of a spice only this new location uses?"

Sherlock straightened up, turned to John and gave a quick grin. "No, you circled the ad in the newspaper."

Now John saw what Sherlock had been so intently studying – the morning's paper, in the appendix of which John had indeed scribbled something over the ad s section. Sherlock turned back to the paper and said, this time with a voice more audible, "And yes, you do reek of satay."

John walked over to the couch and slouched down. He crossed his arms over his chest and looked at Sherlock, who was still staring at the paper his jaw resting on his cllenched fists. He looked like a schoolboy concentrating on a particularly interesting subject.

"You seem to be on a good mood?" John ventured. It was always somehow difficult to spark up a conversation with Sherlock. He was not keen on any kind of small talk, and more often than not this had resulted in an odd sort of a conversation where John threw openings and questions and Sherlock replied with one-syllable answers and grunts that killed the interaction before it had really even seen the light of the day. This time, however, Holmes appeared to be open for a verbal exchange. He turned his clear, intense stare to John and chuckled a bit. "Why yes, John, yes I am in a good mood."

"May I inquire as to the reason why? I thought you would be rather... bored." There had been little going on lately, minus of course Sherlock's experiments and the other means he had of amusing himself - not all of which John was aware of, and probably it was better that way.

"Bored?" Sherlock erected himself and threw the paper at John. "How could I be bored when there is a serial killer roaming the streets?" He sounded almost gleeful.

John didn't have to look at the paper to know what he was talking about. There had been two dead bodies in two weeks, both young gay men around their thirties, found during the early hours of the day by passers-by. The first body had been found the previous week in front of Tate Modern and the other one on Leicester Square, two days ago. The official cause of death given in the papers had been a drug overdose; both men had disappeared from a club where they had been with their friends and had been reported to be under influence of alcohol, if not for something harder.

"Serial killer?" John sounded doubtful. "You think it's a serial killer?"

Sherlock snorted. "Of course it's a serial killer."

"I thought they had OD'ed."

Sherlock waved his hand as if to dismiss a stupid comment. "No, serial killer." He sprung up from the chair and started pacing the room. "They were both in their thirties, young, successful in their professional life - therefore had money on them but their wallets were untouched - so not murdered because of that, disappeared from the same gay club during a night out with their friends, died of a drug they didn't normally take, according to those friends - you see, there already a lot of similarities and I haven't even seen the bodies yet or talked with Lestrade."

John tilted his head a bit. "Yes, why haven't you talked with Lestrade? If it is a serial killer as you say?" John sounded a bit confused as if he had just realized this fact.

Sherlock stopped and folded his long arms over his chest. "Oh, I think he is angry with me..." He shook his head, slightly disapprovingly. "So petty of him, and what a waste of time."

John frowned. "Angry with you? What did you do?"

Sherlock looked almost offended. "Why do you automatically assume it's something I did?"

John didn't bother to reply but his raised eyebrow made it clear that the words "yeah, right" were on the tip of his tongue.

Sherlock shrugged. "I might have taken some liberties concerning replacement of certain evidence."

"So you stole something."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Whatever, he will come around." He glanced at the clock on the wall and realising it was approaching midnight, suddenly perked up. "In the meanwhile, I will start my own investigations concerning the matter." He glanced at John. "Busy?"

Watson shook his head, slowly. He had no idea what the consulting detective had in mind but he had a vague feeling it was something he wouldn't necessarily like at all ."No, I guess not. What is it?"

Sherlock grinned, his eyes sparkling with excitement at the upcoming events. "Get your party shoes on, John - we're going clubbing!"

And with that he made his exit and headed to his bedroom, leaving Watson sitting on the couch, dumbfounded and with no other option than to get up and head to his own room to change.

Fifteen minutes later Watson was back in the living room, wearing a pair of jeans and a black shirt - he really had very little idea how he should have been dressed, but was relatively comfortable with the choice he had made. The shirt was one of his better ones, a designer piece of clothing he had gotten from Harriet last Christmas. The jeans were, well, jeans, but they fit him well and the overall impression was actually far better than the ex-soldier would have thought, or would have given himself credit for. Simple but elegant.

John browsed through the paper to pass the time, his back facing Sherlock's room. When he heard Sherlock come out he turned around, the paper still in his hand and his eyes fixed on the story about the dead men. "Sherlock, which club-" The words died on his lips as he looked up and saw Sherlock.

Standing not five feet in front of him, his flatmate was in the kind of attire that John had not seen outside the pages of fashion magazines. His sark blue t-shirt, with a sharp v-nech, showed off past of his upper chest and suggestively hugged the rest of his lean frame; Watson was able to see the lines of his muscles and joints and the curve of his shoulders. Sherlock's legs were covered in a pair of the skinniest jeans John had seen a while, and it had to be said that Sherlock sported them well; his long legs seemed to be made for that kind of parading. On his feet he had a pair of black leather shoes, and even though not a man of fashion John was able to tell that they were extremely stylish.

The dark clothes accentuated the paleness of his skin, but not in an awkward way; it appeared as if he had a glow about him. The mess of black hair had had some kind of finishing touch, but John couldn't say what - it seemed to be both controlled and ruffled at the same time, and the result was very.. Well, it looked good on him. His eyes were bright but intense and the expression on his face conveyed both excitement about the investigation ahead and determination to solve whatever it was that was to be solved.

When he raised his arms to his shoulders in a sort of "so-what-do-you-think?" gesture, John saw that the waistline of his underwear was visible. The brand was most likely very specific.

"Wow." John said, the bit his tongue. He realized in an instant that what he just said sounded bit odd.

Sherlock grinned, grabbed the shorter man from the shoulders and spun him around, pushing him to the door. "The night awaits us, John Watson!"

With that the duo was out of the door.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Or, Sherlock on the dance floor.

.

.

When they got to the club it was well past 1 a.m. and the scene was quickly gaining momentum. The taxi dropped them off not far from the entrance, in front of a swirling queue worth at least a 45 minute wait. The crowd in front of the club was mostly young, stylish-looking men in their twenties and thirties, thrown in with some older gents and a few girls who were clearly part of the loud and merry groups whose witty comments and howls of laughter filled the warm summer night, springing it into life.

John sighed when he considered the upcoming wait, especially as it wasn't for something he was particularly looking forward to. He wasn't exactly at home with this kind of setting; always a more pub-going type , the doctor rarely frequented clubs or other meccas of nightlife; he found them too loud, hot, obnoxious and above all, pretentious. And yet here he was, about to enter the hippest gay club in the City, with none other than his eccentric flatmate, whom he never would have imagined in this kind of situation either. But then again, by now he should have known that Sherlock was full of surprises and never predictable.

Right now the said flatmate, after getting out from the cab and taking a one quick glance to the painfully long-looking queue, was striding pass it . Sherlock, with his remarkably well-suited body, aroused both annoyed and flattering comments in the crowd; both category of which he probably deserved.

"What's the rush, gorgeous? I'm right here!"

"Hey, take that fine ass of yours behind me!"

"Or under"! Somebody added, causing a wave of approving laughter to pass through the crowd.

Sherlock, seemingly oblivious to the attention he was causing, was now waving frantically to John from the door. Mentally bracing himself he took the necessary steps to get there, and as much as he hoped otherwise, John did not pass unnoticed, either.

"Hey, the hottie has a sweetheart!"

"It's alright, I'll have both of them!"

Concentrating very hard on not listening, John made his way to Sherlock, slightly flustered when he did. Sherlock was grinning at him, looking very cheerful, and motioned towards the entrance; they could hear the almost tactile throbbing coming from the inside. "Come on, John, no time to waste!"

The bouncer, who looked like he could have been a star wrestler, nodded to John and extended his hand to Sherlock as well to let him pass. "Welcome, and enjoy the evening." The greeting came with a smile.

John looked at the bouncer, puzzled, then to Sherlock, even more puzzled. How was that Sherlock always seemed to know exactly the right people?

As they made their way inside, the bass already enveloping them and making it more difficult to hear each other speak, John grabbed Sherlock's arm and shouted in his ear. "So what's the plan?" John had to admit to himslef that he was slightly worried what the answer might be.

Sherlock turned to him, the flickering neon lights playing on his face where they accentuated the sharpness of his cheekbones and cast an eerie, glowing shade to his pale eyes. He seemed excited and yet extremely focused. "The plan, John," he shouted in Watson´s ear, "is to see what the night throws at us!"

They had entered the main hall of the club. It was flashing, extremely loud and hot; the temperature must have been well over 30 degrees. The electronic bass throbbed through the mass of people who filled the relatively large space to its limits. Everywhere around them were people dancing wildly – some of them to the point of obscenity – and the continuously flashing strobe lights made their movements look like bizarre twitching, as if they were watching an old film that wasn't playing properly.

John looked around him, not really knowing where to place himself. The club was packed, and with the temperature he was already sweating –- like pretty much everybody else around him. He glanced around to locate Sherlock and caught a glimpse of him just as he was pulled to the dance floor by a few pairs of hungry hands. Staring at him in astonishment John thought he saw him say the words "When in Rome!" before he disappeared into the pulsating crowd.

John stared for a while at the space where Sherlock had been sucked in and decided there was no way in hell he was going after him. He quickly scanned the edge of the dance floor and saw there was really nowhere to sit, so making himself as comfortable as he could he folded his arms on his chest, leaned on the wall and allowed himself to play the role of a passive observer. The other half of the duo had, after all, already adopted the more active part.

How long he stood there John couldn't say, but it must have been at least an hour. It was interesting to follow the scene, to notice all the social plays taking place; like characters in a play the people seemed to follow quite predictable behavioral patterns. He didn't exactly enjoy the setting but at least it was relatively interesting, in its own way. He hadn't seen anything which could have given him a clue about the case at hand, but to be honest it would have been a long shot anyway.

A few men had approached him, asked him to dance or tried to chat him up. John had politely declined, every time, and couldn't help wondering what kind of attention Sherlock was getting if he was being hit on as well.

Whatever, I need a drink.

With the determination of a man in need John fought his way to the bar and squeezed himself in at the counter, where two blokes were already leaning.

"Watch it"! said one of them, but not in an angry tone.

"Sorry, excuse me", John mumbled and motioned to the bartender. "Whisky neat, please."

One of the blokes glanced at John from the corner of his eye. "Oh, you don't hear that often in here."

John got his drink and almost downed it in one go.

What the hell. When in Rome.

He turned to the man and observed him a bit. Mid-thirties, perhaps, neatly dressed - well, everybody here was neatly dressed -– dark hair, taller than him; a pleasant, if slightly angular, open face. "You don't?"

"No, it's more long drinks here... The little people drink." He winked. The man himself held something that looked like soda water, or gin and tonic.

John looked around. It was true, the bar desk seemed one of the less crowded places in the club. "Right.. Other ways to get whacked, then."

The man chuckled. "Yeah, I guess so. Not everybody, of course," He raised his glass and drank, "But it is quite common. As in every other club in London."

As John turned back to his whisky to swallow the rest of it, the man asked, "So... he's your boyfriend?"

The question made him almost choke on the liquid in his throat and he had to cough a good deal in order not to do so. Once he had gotten himself back in balance he looked again at the stranger, this time more intently. "Sorry, what was that?"

The man nodded his head in the direction behind John and smiled a bit. "That tall, good-looking fella. I saw you come in together. "

John turned and was met with a sight he never could have even begun to imagine. Right there, on the dance floor in the pulsing rhythm of the flashing lights and the intoxicating bass beat, was none other than Sherlock, tangled in a what seemed to be a relatively intense dance with a tall, thin blond man in his mid-twenties in white t-shirt and very well-fitting jeans. Sherlock´s once dark blue shirt now appeared black thanks to the sweat that his body – and the body of the man so very close to him – was emitting. The detective's hair was even more ruffled than it had been when they arrived and John couldn't have even imagined the rest of his state in the embrace of the skin-tight jeans that, as much as he could gather from the expressions of the people in close proximity, aroused much appreciation.

Never mind the strange, unexpected situation –- Sherlock hitting the dance floor in a gay club – looking at him was mesmerissing in a way John couldn't quite put his finger on. Sherlock's tall, lean body could have easily been awkward in such setting but it was far from that. There was a cat-like strength and flexibility in him, and his movements, so in sync with the music and the man glued to him, had a natural ease in them. Sherlock seemed to be in a flow, almost, the other man's both hands rested on the narrow , denim-clad hips of the detective. Sherlock's other hand was placed behind the blond's neck while the other one travelled freely, and if John hadn´t known better he would have assumed this was what Sherlock did every Saturday night.

Do I know better?

In an instant realising that he was staring, John snapped out of it and turned back to his newly-made acquaintance, whose eyes were still locked on Sherlock.

"No, he's not my boyfriend, just a friend." Why was his heart beating a bit faster than it normally did?

The man next to John turned his gaze away from Sherlock and grinned at John. "Well, I'd rethink that if I were you. Seems like a catch to me." He got up to leave. "But listen, I gotta be off. Here's my card, give me a ring sometime if you fancy a drink."

Before John had time to reply he had turned away and was already making his way through the crowd towards the door. Without thinking it twice he grabbed the card – Joseph Lewis, MD, it said – stuffed it in his pocket and turned his look again to the dance floor to locate Holmes.

He saw him immediately - not on the floor anymore but next to the exit, talking with the man he had been dancing with. Or rather, Sherlock was trying to talk as the man was trying to shut him up by kissing him; a task which he didn´t seem to succeed in as Sherlock, smoothly but determinedly, dodged his attempts. Finally he gently pushed the blond man away from him and gave something to him – a slip of paper, perhaps – which made his companion smile. He said something to Holmes, then turned and merged once more into the delirious mass on the dance floor.

Sherlock, having rid of his admirer, looked up and searched the space with his eyes. In a few seconds he located John, still standing next to the bar, and motioned to him towards the exit.

Outside the night air, even if still warm, felt like bliss after the tropical climate of the club. They were walking slowly towards Baker Street, trying to hail cabs as they went. Sherlock was deep in thoughts and quiet; a striking contrast to what had been going on only ten minutes ago. John didn't mind one bit but walked just as quietly next to him, his hands in his pockets as he appreciated the soft night air and the darkness of it.

Sherlock suddenly spoke, his voice carrying the same thoughtfulness that was so visible in his appearance. "He knows something, that man I was dancing with." He acted as if dancing with a stranger in the way that he had would have been the most normal thing to do.

John startled a bit. "About the murders?"

Sherlock nodded slightly. "I think so. He didn´t want to talk about it, though, but I will get it out of him."

"How do you intend to do that?"

John couldn't see Sherlock's expression in the dark but in his voice he heard he was amused. "He is taking me on a date tomorrow."


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Sherlock, not wanting to be caught following them, did the only possible thing he could think of in order to excuse their presence in the alley. In one, swift and strong movement he grabbed John, who was completely taken by surprise, and slammed him back first against the wet brick wall. In a second Sherlock was on him, his hands on both sides of his face and his lips on his, pinning John between the cold wall and his own body, which was steaming hot under the wet clothes."

John woke up the next day with a mild headache - not because of alcohol but because of staying up too late and not getting a proper night's sleep due to that. His body had always reacted like when deprived of rest, but during the past few years it had become more obvious, more noticeable, more annoying. Maybe he was getting old.

Grunting, he threw his legs over the edge of the bed and sat there rubbing his temples, his feet touching the pleasantly cool floor. He thought about the previous night, how utterly absurd it had been. The thumping music, flashing lights, the hunger that had been almost tactile in the hot and humid air. Hunger. For what? Sex, love, experiences, life - hunger for something, anything, hunger for more. It had been intoxicating in a way, even if he had felt very much out of place. Sherlock obviously hadn't, curiously enough, at least judging by the fact the he had been the undisputed queen of the club, even if options certainly hadn't been what one would call limited. It had truly been surprising for John to see Sherlock in a role so drastically different from the one he usually possessed. While dancing with the young man he had been so physical and so full of new kind of energy - so sexual.

Shaking the thought out of his head he got up and grabbed his robe. As he was putting it on his eyes caught the business card on his desk -– the very one the dark man at the bar had given to him last night. He saw the shimmering, pale grey letters on the matte, white background, catching the light in such a way that they looked like they were glowing. John had no idea why he had kept the card; perhaps he had been secretly flattered by the approach. Not likely though, given that he could hardly remember the man's exact features any more.

Yawning, he tied his robe and padded to the kitchen. Supposedly there were few things in the world that a proper cup of tea couldn't set straight, or at least that's what John's grandmother had always said. John didn't quite agree but that didn't take away the fact that he liked to kick off his day with it.

The flat was quiet. John wasn't surprised that Sherlock wasn't up; when they had arrived home Sherlock hadn't appeared to be even remotely tired. On the contrary; he had had an almost feverish glow in his eyes and John had heard him pacing in the living room before he had gone to bed, and he imagined that Sherlock most likely kept pacing long after that. Sherlock was onto something, that much was obvious, even if he hadn't shared any details from his exchange with the blond youth –- who would today be his date.

John didn't know why the thought was slightly irritating to him.

He was distracted from his thoughts by the sound of the opening door. Sherlock stormed into the room, staring at his phone so intense it was a wonder he didn't walk into something. He was followed by Lestrade who appeared to be very hot and bothered in his long-sleeved shirt. It wasn't even noon yet, and the day was already hot as hell.

Sherlock lifted his eyes his phone and saw John, sitting in his robe with a cup of tea in his hand, looking slightly baffled by the entrance of the two men. "John, good, you're up." His tone was very nonchalant and he didn't seem to pay any attention what so ever to the just-woken-up- state Watson was in.

John knew that there was no way of being suave when he was sitting there in his old rag of a robe, his hair standing on end, and possibly stinking like yesterday's whisky. So he didn't even bother to apologize for the state he was in.

"I thought you were still sleeping, Sherlock." His voice was a bit husky.

Sherlock glanced at him from his phone which had once again captured his full attention. "Oh, no, I haven't gone to bed yet. These are too exciting times for sleep."

John turned his gaze from Sherlock to Lestrade with a questioning raise of an eyebrow. "What's going on, then?"

Lestrade, leaning against the fireplace, looked at him. His eyes were tired, as if he hadn't had a proper sleep in a good while. "There was another murder last night."

The silence which usually follows the announcement of a death was interrupted by Sherlock. He wasn't exactly gloating but his voice did have a certain level of impatience in it. "I told you it was a serial killer." When Lestrade shot a glance at him, he continued with a lowered voice, "Or rather, I told your voice mail." The words "voice mail" were very carefully articulated.

Lestrade raised his hands in an exaggerated gesture of resignation. "I know, I know."

John looked first at Lestrade and then Sherlock. "So what happened?"

Sherlock didn't seem to have heard him and continued his vigorous texting without looking up, so Lestrade answered. "There was a young man found this morning, close to Marble Arch. We don't have the cause of death yet, but it appears it falls into the same category as the two previous ones. Young gay man, disappeared yesterday night from the club I heard you two were also at..." Here he paused and looked first at Sherlock, then at John, and then back to Sherlock, and when he got no reaction from either one, continued, "No signs of violence on the body, nothing taken - and no clues, none what so ever. Nobody saw anything, nobody heard anything. "

John looked thoughtful. Before he had time to say anything, Sherlock cut in, sounding smug as the cat who ate the canary. "Oh, but we have clues. " He returned his phone to his pocket. "Or at least we will after tonight."

Lestrade looked at him with a surprised look on his face. "What do you mean?"

"Oh, nothing. I will tell you when I know more." From his voice it was quite apparent that it wouldn't be any use to try to get something more out of him.

"Right. You do that." Lestrade glanced at his watch. "I have to be going. Good luck, whatever it is you're up to."

After the detective was gone, John didn't let the subject drop as easily. "Why didn't you tell him you have a date?" he asked in a neutral voice.

Sherlock, who had sat down and was now fiddling his violin, shrugged his shoulders ever so slightly. "He would just want to bring Alex in for questioning himself. And that wouldn't do anyone any good."

John startled a bit. "Alex?"

"Yes, Alex." Sherlock threw the instrument to the couch. "My _date_."

John cleared his throat a bit. "Oh, right, of course." He didn't know where to look, so got up to rinse his teacup. "So you think he – Alex -knows something about the murders?"

Sherlock smiled a wry smile, the look in his pale eyes slightly absent. "I know he does."

John let the water run into the cup and watched it fill up. "How?"

Sherlock's phone made a beeping sound the sign of a new text. He took it from his pocket and opened the SMS, read it and looked back up at John. "There were signs, visible signs yesterday that he knows something."

Before John had time to comment on the nature of the "signs" the young man had been sending, Sherlock continued, waving the phone in his hand. "And apparently he is dying to see me. I'm sure I'll get it out from him."

John closed the tap. "Right." His voice was louder than it needed to be.

Sherlock got up from the chair. "We were there, John, yesterday - and the murderer was too. We could have seen him, even talked with him." His voice was quiet, almost thoughtful.

"But we have no idea who he is."

"No, not yet." Sherlock walked to John, very close, and put his hands on John's shoulders, shaking him a bit. "But we will. Soon, I'm certain of it."

.

.

.

The night fell, but it provided little relief against the hot and humid weather. The promise of a thunder storm hung over the roofs of London, and the electricity gathering its power inside the dark clouds made the hairs in the back of one's neck stand up. There was a sickly glow all around as the street lights, turned on earlier than normal, tried to pierce through the thick air.

The suffocating air hadn't exactly helped John's headache. All day long there had been a throbbing fist inside the back of his skull, pounding his head with a dull, continuous beat. It made him irritated and snappy. He was now sitting in the living room of Baker Street, thinking about nothing in particular – or at least trying to.

Sherlock had left some hours ago. He had emerged from his room clad in an attire very close to the one he had been wearing the previous night - skinny jeans, tight-fitting t-shirt, hair fixed in a way which was neither messy or neat but just the right mix of both. Even though John knew Sherlock was no stranger to disguises and pretending to be someone he wasn't, he couldn't help wondering how easily he fit into the role of a promiscuous young man hitting the night. It was not only the clothes, or how well they fitted him or even that he was physically built for that kind of wardrobe; there was also a change in his whole being, in his presence and mannerisms. When he came from his room, getting ready to go out and meet the man -Alex, as his name apparently was - there was a change in him that John was able to sense, and even see. A new edge in his eyes and in his tone, softness and yet strength in his movements; the way he held himself and the way his long limbs placed themselves when he moved around. When he was like this it didn't seem so out of place anymore to have witnessed him the night before, entangled in a dance that resembled nothing so much as foreplay.

So it was remarkable, truly, how Sherlock could just slide into another personality. Just like that. What puzzled John about it was that he had, up until that point, thought he knew Sherlock, even if just a little bit. But he wasn't so sure any more, and it made him slightly uneasy. He had seen Sherlock in a new way the night before, and there was no denying that it hadn't had an effect on him.

.

_"I'm off then. I'll text you if I need your help." His voice was absent; he was texting as he spoke. Probably to Alex._

_"I don't see what you'd need me to help with?" He had tried to keep his tone neutral but a slight prickliness had managed to escape._

_Sherlock lifted his eyes from the phone and stared at John for a while, saying nothing. The weight of the thunder hung in the air -surely it was just the thunder? Then he lowered his eyes again to the glowing screen. When he spoke his voice bore no sign of any emotion. "Right. I should be back in some hours. But just in case," he slid his phone in his pocket, "don't wait up." He actually winked._

_John heard the sound of the door slamming shut. John couldn't for the life of him understand why he was so annoyed. Probably the thunder. And the headache._

_._

The sound of his phone as it received a text woke Watson up from his thoughts.

**The club, please come.**

**SH**

He thought for a while, staring at the letters on the screen. Then, with the resignation of a man who really has no choice, he got up and left.

.

.

When he arrived at the scene the sky had finally broken under the weight of the thunder and was now washing away the stuffiness and stillness of the past weeks. To say that it was pouring was an understatement; within the first 10 seconds after he was out from the cab John was already soaking wet. He saw Sherlock standing in front of the club, but this time there was no line. The flashing lights of the entrance flickered across his body, reflecting off the wet t-shirt that was glued to his torso. His wet hair looked blacker than the clouds hanging in the sky, whereas the curls framed his sharp features and accentuated his paleness.

He saw John in an instant and hurried to him, grabbing his arm. "You're just in time, come, they just left!" He was visibly excited; there was that certain glow in his eyes that he only had when the chase was at its tensest.

John, allowing himself to be dragged towards the back alley behind the club, tried to get up to date with the situation. "What? Who?" He had caught up his pace and was now running alongside Sherlock.

They got the corner of the street. In front of them was the opening to a quiet alley occupied by back doors, trash cans and fire escapes. Sherlock stopped suddenly and grabbed John's shoulder in order to hold him back. "Alex. He's gone off with our man." He had lowered his voice. "They mustn't notice us."

John didn't ask anything more, just followed a step behind him, not entirely sure what they were after. They walked slowly ahead, listening for any possible sounds even though the torrential rain made it almost impossible to hear a thing. Then, suddenly, there was movement in front of them - someone walking towards them with a fast pace, almost running. Sherlock, not wanting to be caught following them, did the only possible thing he could think of in order to excuse their presence in the alley. In one, swift and strong movement he grabbed John, who was completely taken by surprise, and slammed him back first against the wet brick wall. In a second Sherlock was on him, his hands on both sides of his face and his lips on his, pinning John between the cold wall and his own body, which was steaming hot under the wet clothes.

The unexpected make-out session lasted only a brief moment, the time it took for the person to pass them - seemingly thinking theirs was yet another match made in the club - - and when Sherlock separated his lips from John's he was still so dazed that he just stood there, blinking.

Sherlock, on the other hand, reacted. He stormed at the direction where the person had entered. His steps echoed on the walls as he ran down the alley and a few seconds later John heard them stop, a moment of silence and then the steps again, now in the direction of John who had gained back his ability to function. As Sherlock rushed past him John saw he had blood on his hands and heard him shouting over the rain, "Call 999, he's been stabbed!". Then he disappeared behind the corner and was gone, the only sound being the rain drumming on the ground.

John ran down the alley and almost tripped on the body that was lying on the ground on its back. It didn't take a doctor to realise that Alex was dead.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock, suddenly snapping out of whatever state he had been in, looked at John with an expression on his face John could only label as intrigued. "I kissed you, in the alley."
> 
> As if John didn't know that. He couldn't be quite sure what it was that Sherlock was aiming for, so he just met his gaze with what he hoped was a neutral face. "Yes, yes, you did."
> 
> Sherlock tilted his head, ever so slightly. "Did it bother you?"

   
  
   
  
It was early morning when they had been finally allowed to leave the police station. They weren't suspected of killing Alex - they had, after all, an established reputation of sorts among the force. That –and the fact that there was certain surveillance camera footage in which it became quite apparent that Sherlock had more or less had his tongue in John's mouth around the same time as Alex Collins, aged 24, lost his life.

  
But still, the police was very interested in hearing any bits of information they could possibly get, especially as the murderer's face had not been captured on tape. The killer seemed to have known where the camera was and had done a very good job at hiding any recognizable features from its revealing eye.

  
So the police had brought them in. First John - they had picked him up from the crime scene where they had arrived at the same time as ambulance. John had stood there, next to the still, dead body of the young man soaked in rainwater and in his own blood. The cause of death was apparent - one single wound, a well-targeted slash that had cut his femoral vein. Whoever had stabbed the young man had done so with the intention to kill and with a specialized knowledge of human anatomy.

  
Watson saw the lights of the ambulance reflecting on the wet brick walls before he had seen the actual vehicle. The paramedics came rushing, no matter how useless it was; it made John feel a tinge of sadness. Nothing could have been done to salvage the life that was lost from the body that lay at his feet.

  
He stepped back as the paramedics ran to the body, knelt down, and unsuccessfully looked for signs of life. John was completely wet but he didn't feel it anymore, only the unusual weight of his clothes as they hung on his frame. What he did feel, however, or at least imagined to feel, was the memory of the hard brick against his back, the pressure of Sherlock's warm – no,  _hot_  - body against his, radiating through the wet, cold layers of cloth, and the sensation of Sherlock's lips on his.

  
The kiss had been like... John didn't have proper words to describe it even to himself. It was nothing like he had experienced before. It had not been like a woman's kiss, soft and tempting and almost surrendering. It had been raw, honest, pure - John had felt such a surge of energy transferring between them, a pulse of force nearly animalistic in its strength. Not a spark but a lightning.

  
His lips tingled with the memory of it.

  
And then an officer had woken him up from his blank stare and he had started. "Would you mind coming with us, sir, we need to ask you a few questions." The voice of the old officer - John didn't recognize him - had been calm, almost to the point of being kind, but of course John knew his request hadn't been the polite invitation that he had made it sound like.  
He had nodded and followed the officer into the blinding storm of wildly blinking blue and red lights, got into one of the cars, and hadn't look back as they drove him away. He had had no idea what had become of Sherlock.

  
Some hours later, when the police were done with their reports, they finally let him go. This was after they had made John recap the events of the night several times. It was extremely annoying, especially the part where they asked questions like "Why did you think Mr. Holmes kissed you?" and "How long did you kiss?" and "Did you see anything when you were kissing?"  
John was tired and his headache hadn't exactly gotten better thanks to yet another night of sleep deprivation. He walked down the corridor, towards the station's exit, wondering somewhere in the back of his foggy brain what could have happened to Sherlock after he had stormed after the assumed killer. He was answered with an armful of the said detective as Sherlock dashed out suddenly from behind the corner, bumping into him.

  
"Sherlock, Christ, watch where you're going!"  _The_ _feel_ _of_ _his_ _lean_ _body_ _pressing_ _against_ _his_ _on_ _the_ _alley_

  
Sherlock took a step back, looking not surprised at all to see Watson. "Oh good, they let you go as well. Breakfast?" His tone was quite normal, but John saw the lines on his face and the graveness in his eyes. He was still wearing the clothes he had last night - as was John, of course - but they were dirty and his arm had a bruise in it. There was dried blood on his neck, and John resisted the urge to wipe it off.

  
Instead he stared back at Sherlock, with a thoughtful look in his eyes, and nodded slightly. "Alright."

  
They walked out side by side, in their damp clothes, both quiet and lost in their thoughts.

  
Outside the rain had ceased a few hours ago but the morning sun hadn't had enough time to dry the signs of last night's storm. There were puddles on the streets of dirty, grey water but the two men just walked straight through them - it obviously made very little difference anymore. In a silent agreement they made their way towards the small café close to their flat, one they often frequented.

  
Once there they sat down in a table and made their orders. John ordered the breakfast special, tea and extra bread - he was starving - Sherlock had coffee.

  
John lent back on his chair, his arms folded over his chest - the damp clothes made him feel slightly chilly - and looked at Sherlock, who was staring through the dirty window into somewhere John wasn't able to see.

  
"What happened, Sherlock?" His voice was quiet but left no room for argument; he wanted to know.

  
Sherlock sighed, lightly, and turned his eyes to John. They seemed sunken in his sharp face, but the look in them was calm. "It was my fault he died, John. Alex. " There was a terrible clarity in his voice as he placed his guilt out in the open for John to see. So matter-of-fact, so detached - and yet John was able to sense Sherlock wasn't so undisturbed as his exterior may have indicated.

  
John knew better not to argue with him, not now. "Want to walk me through it? The whole thing?"

  
Sherlock turned his eyes back to the window. He obviously didn't want to talk more about it, but he needed to. Big difference.

  
When he started to recount the events of the past evening, his voice was very neutral, lacking some of his usual sharp rhythm. "I met him last night, right after I left the flat. Must have been around 9:00 or so. He was high, probably on cocaine but I didn't ask. Lot of sniffing, though. And a lot of talk. A lot. " He sifted his posture a bit as if to convey the awkwardness of the mentioned situation. Then he continued, keeping his eyes fixed to the distance. "We went to a bar in Soho, small place, not so many people. He was very keen… very  _into_  me as I believe the expression goes," he paused for a while and it seemed like his thoughts had strayed elsewhere. John just stared at him. Had Sherlock looked at him right then he perhaps would have noticed that John was holding his breath, as if he were afraid of what Sherlock would say next.

After a short silence, Sherlock gathered his thoughts from wherever they had wandered, and continued with the same monotonous voice. "He wanted to go to back to his place or to mine, he wasn't being shy about it at all. I insisted we go to the club first; by that point it had already become quite apparent to me that he knew who the killer was." Sherlock suddenly turned his gaze to John who almost flinched at Sherlock's intense presence. "You see, on the first night at the club - he made jokes that he was dangerous, that those three men all had some connection to him and that is why they were murdered. Black widow, he called himself - rather over dramatic of course, given that he certainly wasn't the killer - but there was a connection." He slammed his fist to the table in an apparent anger. "And now he's dead."

  
John just stared - it seemed to have become a habit of his - and waited for Sherlock to continue at his own pace. After a few moments he did, having regained his balance.

  
"So we went to the club - this was about the time when I asked you to come - like yesterday, and I tried to get it out of him. He wanted something else entirely -" he stopped for a second as if to think "-but I told him it wouldn't do, not until he told me what he meant with typecasting himself as dangerous. He seemed to have yielded and told me to wait while he went to "powder his nose", but he never came back. I suspected I was close, and when he came out from the bathroom and I saw a man taking him outside, I knew it. So I followed them and then... Well, the rest you already know." The explanation seemed to have drained him and he sunk a bit lower in his chair.

  
_Like the hell I do, what was that in the alley?_

  
"And when you went after the killer? What happened?" John's voice was very even, very solid.

  
Sherlock made a sound of frustration. "He heard me. Was waiting a few blocks down the road and bashed me to the head from behind." John saw in his expression how much it pained Sherlock to have fallen in such an easy trap. "I was out of it for a while. When I came to my senses I came back and the police took me, much as I imagine they had already done to you in that point."

  
John nodded slightly. "So you didn't see him. The killer."

  
"No, not on the street. But I did catch a glimpse inside the club. I would recognize him if I saw him again." From his voice it was clear that he knew it was so.

  
John suddenly thought of something. "How can you be so sure that the man who killed Alex is the same one who killed the other three? Alex was stabbed, after all. Doesn't fit the pattern."

  
Sherlock looked at him with a patient expression on his colourless face. "It doesn't, you're right. But Alex knew who he was and that's why he was killed. The murderer freaked out, or got angry. He wasn't supposed to kill him but he had no choice. What I suspect is that there was some kind of emotional connection between them. Some kind of game going on. I don't know yet." His voice had an edge of impatience in it. And something else that John wasn't quite able to categorize; it could have been guilt.

  
Sherlock continued, his tone again stripped of all colour. "Lestrade is going down to Alex's flat in an hour or so. He wanted me to take a look as well." Sherlock lifted his eyes to John. The look in them was as impossible to read as his tone. "Will you come with me?"

  
Never mind the tiredness, the aching head, the thoughts that clouded his head. "Of course." John even threw a little shrug in.

  
They sat in silence for a while, the remains of John's breakfast getting cold on the plate on the table between them.

  
Sherlock, suddenly snapping out of whatever state he had been in, looked at John with an expression on his face John could only label as intrigued. "I kissed you, in the alley."

  
As if John didn't know that. He couldn't be quite sure what it was that Sherlock was aiming for, so he just met his gaze with what he hoped was a neutral face. "Yes, yes, you did."

  
Sherlock tilted his head, ever so slightly. "Did it bother you?"

  
"Bother me?" Why was his mouth suddenly so dry?

  
"Yes, bother you - did you find it upsetting? Some men might." His tone was as if he had been inquiring whether the bus went to Piccadilly or not. How did he do that? Switch from one state of mind to another in an instant, just like that, without any apparent recollection from the previous? And how exactly were you supposed to answer a question like that?

  
"Well, I - it was... unexpected. But if you are asking me if I am upset, no, I guess you did what the situation required." That sounded reasonable. He sounded reasonable. Well done.  
Sherlock narrowed his eyes a bit. Just as he was about to say something John cut in - he couldn't believe he did but there he went - :"Did  _you_  mind?"

  
Sherlock was clearly surprised by his question and thought for a several seconds before replying. "Was it upsetting for me? I wouldn't say so." He looked at John slightly sideways, as if trying to figure out something. "I mean, Alex - like I said, he was very keen-"

  
"Right." John really didn't need to hear the details.

  
"-but you, kissing you.." His voice trailed off; he was obviously thinking hard. "No, I didn't find it upsetting. No." Then, with a voice slightly quieter, "As you said, I did what I had to."  
Sherlock got up, abrupt and sudden. "Ready to go?" His voice had gained back its usual strength and volume.

  
John, slightly taken aback by the conversation that they had apparently just finished, got up as well. "Yes."  
 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so how do you find it so far? there's still a lot to go, are you keen?


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The man grinned a wicked grin. His pearl-white, straight teeth gave him a beastly look. "Oh, you're such a liar." He ushered John to turn and walk with the gun. "That's what you said at the club as well. But I saw you. I saw you in the alley."
> 
> In an instant John knew who he was.
> 
> He also knew this wouldn't end well.

x

x

x

They met Lestrade outside Alex's flat as the DI had requested. It was about 10 am, but it could have been deep in the afternoon judging by the temperature. Somewhat unexpectedly the heat wave hadn't eased its grip one bit after the thunderstorm that had taken place the previous night; if anything, the air felt even more oppressing. It stuck to the skin like a warm, wet cloth, blocking every pore. What was worse, its total stillness prevented any chance of a refreshing breeze.

Lestrade was waiting for them with two other officers and probably an army more inside the flat. He was leaning on the wall, trying to take advantage of the small spot of shade offered by the entrance to the building, but not having much luck with his effort. The policemen were chatting nonchalantly; when Holmes and Watson arrived, the incoherent flow of words suddenly stopped as if cut with a knife. John knew they probably looked terrible - both of them had visible signs of staying awake far too long, and they even if they had changed clothes and showered after clubbing, the strain of the past 12 hours was written all over them.

"Gentlemen." Sherlock's greeting was directed to no one specifically.

Lestrade's expression had lightened with the sight of them. The other two officers remained somewhat stoic. "Good, you're here." He opened the door and motioned Sherlock and John to enter. As they did, they heard him mutter, "Even though can't say how much help you can be."

They climbed the stairs up to Alex's flat, Sherlock leading the way and Lestrade following. The corridor was dim and the weak sunlight, filtering in from the dirty windows made the atmosphere somewhat surreal. It was four floors up, no elevator, and by the time they got to the door they felt hot with the physical exertion of climbing the stairs.

It was a small flat of about 50 square meters, two rooms and a kitchen accompanied by a small bathroom. The furniture was simple, relatively new, and there were a few pieces of artwork that were most likely selected with a careful eye –- they seemed that incomprehensible to John. There was nothing unique about the space, it was if stylish yet very impersonal, as if it were lifted straight out of an interior design magazine.

Sherlock walked straight into the bedroom; John stayed in the living area, observing the details the best he could in that state of mind. There was a couch, pale grey, and two black resting chairs. No TV but a proper sized Mac on the desk, and a projector hanging from the ceiling, targeted towards the white-washed wall on the right. A bookshelf with books the owner had probably never read - Dostoevsky, Camus, Hemingway and others - and a box on the floor which seemed to be full of DVDs. No curtains, interestingly enough, and no carpet either - the floor was parquet. Nice apartment, all in all.

John heard the steps behind him before he heard the voice, and when he did he wished he hadn't.

"Oh, Dr. Watson, what a  _nice_ surprise." The word 'nice' was pronounced in a way which made it obvious it was everything but.

John closed his eyes, just for a second, and then turned around. "Anderson." Somehow he managed to make his recognition - one couldn't call it a greeting – to sound like an insult.

The rat-like man lent on the door frame, his hands crossed over his chest, looking even more pleased with himself than he usually did. John saw pearls of sweat forming on his forehead thanks to the climb upstairs. "Did you bring your boyfriend?" His voice was mocking.

John didn't have time to reply before Anderson continued. "Of but of course you did. Such is young love. Where is he, now?" The nasality of his voice appeared to have gained some momentum.

Anderson lifted his eyes from John to somewhere behind his back. An expression resembling a gloating grin but failing miserably spread on his face. "Oh there he is!" John hadn't heard Sherlock's footsteps but now felt his presence behind him.

"Look at you two lovebirds! Who would have thought!..." Anderson obviously had trouble controlling himself.

John looked at him, tightly. "Anderson, what the  _hell_  is your problem?"

Anderson's eyes widened in a victorious glee. "I saw the tape, Dr. Watson, of your little moment!" He pointed his finger first to John, then to Sherlock and back to John and then lifted both his hand and waved them frantically around. He seemed to be trembling with excitement as his motions encompassed everybody in the room. "As a matter of fact, we  _all_  saw it!"

_The surveillance camera on the alley, right._

John glanced at Lestrade who just shrugged in agreement. Before John had time to say anything, he heard Sherlock's voice coming from behind him, very close to his ear. The consulting detective must have been standing only inches from him.

"Oh Anderson.." His voice was at the same time pitying and condescending "I knew you always had a thing for me, but..." The softness of his voice contradicted strongly with the ridiculing tone. Sherlock put his hands on John shoulders and lent even closer to him. "But we are very happy. I'm sorry, Anderson."

Anderson looked as if he had been hit on the stomach when the muffled laughs from all around the room made it quite obvious who the fool in the situation was. He glared at John and Sherlock, who still rested his hands on his John's shoulders and was - John was quite convinced of it even though he couldn't see his face - smiling widely.

Muttering something under his breath Anderson straightened up and stormed to the bedroom.

Sherlock released his hold of John and stepped to the desk, starting to rummage through it. John, still standing there in the middle of the room, tried to act as if nothing had just happened.

After a short silence that someone might have categorized as awkward, Lestrade cleared his throat. "Anything?"

Sherlock was flipping through some papers he had retrieved from the desk. Without looking up he threw them back in the drawer and grabbed a new pile. "It's not his real flat." He sounded very calm, as if the notion he had just made would have been equally obvious as the phrases "It's hot outside" or "Anderson is an idiot".

Lestrade flinched as if he had have been slapped. "Say what?" John was equally surprised but didn't say anything.

Sherlock lifted his blank face from whatever he had been studying and looked at Lestrade. "It's not. Look at this, there's nothing here, nothing personal. It's like a hotel room." He walked to the bookshelf and grabbed a book from it, waving it in the air. "Look at these, it's the collection of books no one ever reads but that look good - well at least he wouldn't have read  _these_ ones. There's no pictures, no bills, no notes, not anything that would indicate that somebody lived here. There is nothing in the fridge, nothing in the cupboards."

Lestrade looked doubtful. "But this is his address. And what do you mean there is nothing here, there's plenty of stuff."

Sherlock had the look 'oh please' on his face. Lestrade continued, sounding much more defensive than he had. "Alright, it's quite general..."

"And unused, most of it."

"…and relatively new, but that doesn't mean it's not his flat."

"Yes, it does." Sherlock sounded quite certain.

Lestrade still looked as if he wasn't entirely assured. "Well, if for the sake of conversation we assume it's not his flat, then where did he live? And why is he registered in here?"

Sherlock put the book back and turned to leave. "I don't know yet, but I will." He glanced at John. "Shall we?" And then, with a voice so loud Anderson in the other room could have to missed it, "My dear Watson."

Lestrade remained in the flat, looking after them and shaking his head.

x

x

x

They were on the street, trying to hail a cab.

"So whose flat was that?" John sounded as doubtful as Lestrade had looked a few moments ago.

"Alex's." Sherlock was gazing up and down the street, trying to spot a familiar black car.

John wasn't sure he had heard right. "What?"

Sherlock turned his look to him. "It's his flat, but not his real one. I think that was where he was kept."

" _Kept_?" One-word replies seemed to be enough in this conversation. "Kept, as in keeping a pet?"

Sherlock ignored him. "Alex had a sponsor. You know, young good-looking man with little money and no interest in working for it - well at least not in the traditional way -"

John cut in, puzzled. "So he was a prostitute?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Not exactly, at least I don't think so. More like a high-end courtesan than a prostitute. I think there is another man involved, his boyfriend of sorts, and I also think he is our killer."

John wasn't even trying to keep up anymore. "What on earth makes you conclude that?"

"Of course the anonymity of the flat - nothing personal in it, either because he didn't want to or because he wasn't allowed to – it's hard to say. He hinted that he did something unconventional for living, and then there was the reference of being dangerous - meaning that perhaps the sponsor didn't like his free-time activities with somebody else. And most importantly-" His face lit up as he spotted a taxi slowing down, "- he wanted to take me to his place and this was  _not_  the general direction he pointed me to."

The taxi pulled up and Sherlock opened the door. John pushed it shut and turned to look at him. "You went to his place?"

Sherlock looked at him from the corner of his eye. "No. But why do you ask?" Did he try to change the subject?

John realised he was holding the door closed and pulled his hand back. Why did he suddenly feel so annoyed? "I thought you said you didn't go with him." There was a strong feeling of something growing in his voice. Could have been anger.

"That's right, I said that." Sherlock's voice was even.

"Did you?"

"I said I didn't." His voice was like it often was, no undertones, his face so free of any revealing expressions or unintentional eye movements that gave every other person away - and you just couldn't be sure if he was being sincere or not.

John stared at him, frustrated and not even understanding why. He stepped back and tried to keep his voice as normal as possible. "You know what, I'm going to walk."

Sherlock stared at him and slowly opened the cab door again, not letting his gaze drop. "You're not coming?"

John shook his head and shoved his hands in his pockets. "No, I think you'll do just fine by yourself." With that he turned around and started walking down the street. After a few seconds he heard the door slam shut and the taxi drove away.

x

x

x

It was early evening when John started to consider returning to Baker Street. It had taken him a surprisingly long time to calm himself down; for some reason or another the events of the morning, starting from breakfast, had made him extremely peeved, even to the point of being angry. At whom or what he really couldn't say, which had only added to his frustration. Sherlock's behavior annoyed him, but it wasn't Sherlock he was annoyed at, as contradictory as that may have sounded. All he knew that he was seriously bothered.

So in order to vent he had walked around a bit – it hadn't really helped all that much, the hot and humid weather had only managed to make everything a bit more irritating. After that failed he had, out of no specific reason, stepped into the National Gallery and enjoyed the cool halls more than the actual exhibition. It had given him a chance to cool himself down, both literally and figuratively, and after he emerged some hours later John felt much better, even if he still wasn't quite able to put his finger on what it was that had agitated him so.

By that time he felt hungry, so he stepped into a pub and ordered a light meal with a pint. As he ate he couldn't help himself from thinking about Sherlock. If he was honest with himself, it was Sherlock he had thought about the most of the day anyway, but now he started wondering what had happened after they had parted ways. John hadn't heard anything from him the whole day, which wasn't that unusual but given how they had departed, he read a bit more into it than he normally would have had.

After finishing his late lunch his feet had taken him to the river, and he stopped for a while to try to catch the small breeze that was blowing over the open water. He closed his eyes and leaned on the heavy stone railing protecting the sidewalk, thinking he probably shouldn't let Sherlock get under his skin. His flatmate was an oddball, there was no denying that, and the truth of the matter was that John had known this when he had decided to share a flat with him.  _You made your bed, now lie in it_ , as his mother had always said.

Suddenly, in the midst of his thoughts, John realised there was someone standing next to him. He opened his eyes and glanced to his side; it took him a few seconds to recognize the vaguely familiar man standing next to him, leaning on the railing. It was the man from the club, what the hell was his name-

"Dr. Watson." His voice was courteous and deeper than John had remembered. There was a slight undertone in it which John couldn't recognize - behind the seemingly calm exterior something more restless seemed to be lurking, as if he were nervous or expectant of something.

John was surprised and it was apparent in his voice. "Oh. Hello, Mr..." He was looking for his last name from the recollection of his business card on his desk, when he suddenly realized something. "How did you know my name?"

In an instant the surprise caused by the sudden appearance of the random stranger was accompanied with a slightly raised level of alertness.

The man - Lewis, now he remembered - turned to face him so that John saw his face. There was an odd expression on it, but he managed to somehow cover it up with a smile. "It's Joseph. It's alright you don't remember my name, John, we met so briefly, after all."

John's alarms were now fully alert he straightened himself, getting ready to leave. "Right, and this time it will be even more brief." There was something amiss with his man and John had no intention of watching where it would lead. There was enough oddness around as it was.

As he was about to turn around and leave the man suddenly grabbed his wrist. "Hurrying home to your boyfriend, are you?" His voice had a new edge in it. It was sharp, bordering hostile.

"What the hell?" John yanked his arm free. "I don't have one, and even if I did it's none of your business!"

A click John recognized so well made him freeze. He knew without looking that the hard object he felt against his ribs was a gun.

"Calm down, Dr. Watson, and I won't hurt you." Joseph's voice was almost a hiss.

John stood there, stiff, his hands slightly lifted and palms open. "What do you want?" He was playing along for a while, until he would get into a position to do something.

Joseph's eyes glowed in a way which left little doubt about his mental state. "I want you to take me to your boyfriend."

John shook his head, slowly. "Look, I don't know who or what you are talking about. You must have mistaken me for someone else." It was highly unlikely as the man knew his name and occupation, but it was still worth a shot.

The man grinned a wicked grin. His pearl-white, straight teeth gave him a beastly look. "Oh, you're such a _liar_." He ushered John to turn and walk with the gun. "That's what you said at the club as well. But I  _saw_  you. I saw you in the alley."

In an instant John knew who he was.

He also knew this wouldn't end well.

x

x

x


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John doesn't notice the wound on his neck from which blood is now pouring out with an alarming speed. He doesn't notice it because there is no pain and because he doesn't see the blood which is already running down on his chest and staining his shirt; the only thing he sees right now is Sherlock, on the couch on his back, half out from the couch actually, his arms spread on his sides like he would have been crucified to the piece of furniture, the dark hair covering half of his face. John doesn't see his own gun on the floor where it dropped from Sherlock's hand because he is rushing to him and he has no attention left for details.

Sherlock was sitting in a chair, his back to the door and presence somewhere miles away. His long legs were stretched straight in front of him, crossed from the ankles, and his jaw rested on the tips of his fingers, elbows supported to the armrests. The relaxed posture and slow, deep breathing that raised and lowered his chest under the light t-shirt he was wearing made his exterior appear calm, but behind his eyes was going on a frantic process of organizing, evaluating and categorizing the information he had gathered during the day. It had not been much, and Sherlock had the distinct feeling that it might not be adequate to make something useful out of it.

Sherlock didn't know where Alex had had his second - real - flat. He knew the general area because Alex had mentioned it, and he knew that it was a walking distance from the bar they had met in on their date - Alex had, after all, made it very clear that it was not far. And that bar had been nowhere near to the flat they had seen, so another one definitely existed. He even knew the neighbourhood - as they had been heading to the club Alex had half jokingly pulled him to take a left from a certain crossroad-

_"Come on, my place is just around the corner." The young man's voice is playful as he grabs Sherlock's hand and pulls him towards a side-street._

_Sherlock shakes his head with a fake smile on his face and pulls his hand back, to which attached follows Alex, taking advantage of the situation and pressing his body to Sherlock's. He is almost as tall, and his build is alike to Sherlock's; his body is lean and the way his shirt hugs his frame leaves little room for imagination. Alex's cheekbones are well-defined and overall the Slavic blood he'd said to have in his veins is obvious in his features. Running his hand through Sherlock's dark messy curls Alex pulls his face closer to his and whispers to his ear, lips brushing his skin, "Later, then," and Sherlock, allowing the young man to  kiss his neck nods in false agreement._

So he had spent a good part of the day on that neighbourhood, thinking, stopping into cafés and a few other places Alex had fleetingly mentioned, not sure what he had been looking for. What had made his search even more difficult was that his mind had seemed to be entirely elsewhere; it had felt as if there had been a part of his brain occupied with something else than the case at hand. As if it had been reserved to deal with some other situation, or problem - but there was none.

_How surprised he had felt when John had left him standing next to the cab, and yet at the same time he knew he probably had it coming_

When the door behind him suddenly opened and woke him up from his thoughts, Sherlock knew in an instant that A - it was John who had came and that B - he wasn't alone. 

Sherlock didn't turn around, just straightened himself a bit, his posture otherwise remaining unchanged. He saw from the faint reflection on the window the figure standing behind John. It was taller than the ex-soldier, so surely a man - and then he heard John's voice and any uncertainty he might have had concerning the nature of the current situation was quickly removed .

"Sherlock.."

Just the name, just a word but so often used - Sherlock heard his name uttered by John more than by anyone else, and he had learnt the different ways he had of saying that string of letters. There was a greeting ´Sherlock´, angry, questioning, accusing, friendly, worried, fond - the list went on, there was always a message in the way John said his name. And now the information carried with his name told Sherlock that things were not alright, that indeed something was seriously amiss, and that John was very, very worried and that Sherlock probably should be as well.

All this and much more rushed through Sherlock's brain in the few seconds it had taken for John and the man behind him to get it and close the door. When Sherlock spoke his voice was very even and calm, in perfect correspondence with his almost elegant posture. "John. I see we have a guest?" Still he didn't turn around; instead he continued to observe the intruder from his vague reflection on the window pane.

John looked at the dark mess of a hair in front of him, trying feverishly to figure out what would be the best move to make next. They were now indoors, behind the closed doors of their flat, and it was only the three of them now present - this was an improvement on sorts. John had, on the way, considered tackling Joseph and trying to strip him of the gun; but all the time there had been people around them, and Joseph had made it very clear that should John try something he would first shoot him in the knees and after that turn his aim to the people around them; and only after that would he put the bullet in John's head. The man did seem insane enough to act out his threat, and John had decided it would be better and smaller risk to try to take him down once indoors; at least then, the risk of someone else getting killed lessened considerably.

Joseph had gotten more and more agitated on the way to Baker Street and was currently in a mental state which could only be categorized as a loose cannon - therefore all sudden movements were probably be better left out for now. John could almost hear him fiddling the trigger of the gun in his hands, a fact that made him rather nervous given that the weapon was aimed at his kidneys. And yet he knew it was Sherlock Joseph was after, and this made him even more worried.

John swallowed. He had heard from Sherlock's voice and saw from his posture that he knew something was going on. Did he know there was a man with a gun and an intention to kill him he couldn't be sure of.

Joseph pushed the barrel of the gun deeper into John's back, making him grunt a bit. "Mr. Holmes, finally. I have come to settle some business with you." Joseph seemed to have gained some sanity back in his voice as it was quite even now.

John watched, his heart cold, as Sherlock slowly rose from the chair and turned to face the two men standing there like characters in an absurd play. Sherlock didn't look so tired and worn as he had in the morning. He was odd in that way; excitement or something of interest affected him the same way as sleep and food did to most people - nourishing, reviving - resurrecting, almost.

Sherlock looked at John very quickly, as if checking he was OK. Their eyes locked for a fraction of a second, a moment shorter of a glimpse and yet long enough for them to read each other. There was no fear in either ones eyes, even if they both knew the severity of the situation. Then Sherlock's eyes continued up to meet the intruders'; there was a notable swift in him as he recognized Joseph. 

"But of course."

Joseph raised his hand holding the gun and pressed the barrel on John's jawline, pointing upwards so that the possible bullet fired would travel diagonally through his skull. His grip of John was firm and his voice cold and even. "Let me make one thing known, Mr. Holmes. As you may already know I have killed before, and I do not hesitate to do so again. I also have no fear for my own life, so any stupid, heroic acts you might feel tempted to try, will end up badly to either you or your boyfriend here, or in the best case, both."

Sherlock's voice was equally deprived of any emotion. "Or you."

Joseph let out a small laugh. "Don't threaten me. You're in no position to do so."

"I'm not threatening you. Just stating a fact." It was rather amazing, really, how an unarmed man in a t-shirt with no shoes on facing another one dressed in a well-cut suit and holding a gun to the head of someone of relevance still managed to deliver the apparently impossible option as a plausible one.

Joseph tapped John's jaw with the barrel. "Do you know why I want to kill you, Mr. Holmes?" There was genuine interest in his voice.

Sherlock kept his eyes tightly on Joseph and his hostage. From the way he held himself and the way his eyes moved, in small, rapid pulses, John knew he was thinking  - a way to get out of the situation, no doubt. 

"No, pray tell." There was no sarcasm in his voice, and yet everybody in the room felt his presence oozing it.

Joseph was quiet for a while, as if trying to think of what to say. When he started speaking he spoke slowly and thoughtfully, considering his words. "Well, I would be surprised if you didn't... I mean, it's so simple, the most common of all reasons. It's revenge. Revenge. Revenge, don't you like the ring of that word? Yeah, I like that."

John stared at Sherlock and Sherlock stared at Joseph, appearing to take interest in his ranting. "Revenge?" A slight ring of surprise in his voice, perhaps. Feigned or genuine, impossible to tell.

Joseph sounded bored now. "Alex. Revenge on Alex. " Like he would have been talking to a five-year-old.

Sherlock's voice was blank but John saw an flash of puzzlement crossing his face. "But you killed him."

John could imagine Joseph rolling his eyes. "Yes, but only because you made me."

Sherlock smirked. "I made you? I don't think that will hold up in court."

"It does in this one." Joseph nodded towards the sofa. "Sit, now, I'm not asking." It was quite obvious he wasn't.

Sherlock took the few steps between the chair and the sofa, slowly, never letting his gaze fall. At the same time Joseph pushed John to move so that when the places had been set he had a direct line to Sherlock, a few meter distance with only John between them.

Joseph apparently had some kind of need to explain himself. "He was a stupid boy, Alex, nice to look at and a damn good shag, but stupid. And vain. I mean, going around the city like that, even though he very well knew how I felt about that - him fucking someone else, after all that I gave to him - ungrateful, stupid stupid boy. And yet, " Joseph paused for just a little while, "yet I wanted to take care of him, but I'm a jealous man and I won't stand and watch as he makes a fool of me, so I had to take care of that and still he wouldn't stop doing so, he just laughed.. I think he liked it to be honest, that I killed those suitors of his.. I think it made him feel special."

Sherlock looked up and John could see from his face that he wasn't all that surprised. "So he knew. That you killed those men." It wasn't a question, just a check mark in a box of his deduction.

Joseph sounded a bit distant. "Yes, yes, of course he knew." An edge of impatience snug into his voice. "He knew, and he didn't mind. But then he wanted to tell you, I guess he thought it would be a fun game if he gave you a hint and we could see if you'd be able to crack it, but there's no way, no  _way_  I would've agreed to that.. No, no." Joseph changed his posture a bit, together with an apparent change in his tone. It was now clear and even, not the string of mutters it had been just seconds ago. "So I had to kill him. Which makes it your doing. If you hadn't poked around in business that was not yours, I wouldn't have had to do it."

There was a pause. The silence was broken by a simple plan of action, uttered with a very determined voice. " So you have to die as well."

Simple as that.

A change, so subtle it almost wasn't there, in a way Joseph balanced himself - John felt it going through his body as he was gripping him and in an instant John knew what it meant; the soldier training truly hadn't gone into waste with him. That small swift in the tension running through the body of the intruder and John's body knew, before his conscious mind did, that Joseph was about to fire the gun at Sherlock, and acted accordingly.

What happened in the next second was not, even afterwards, really clear to John. Later on he wished he could have said that things happened like in a slow-motion film, but the truth could have not been further. Things happened fast, extremely so, up to the point that they were actually like in a fast-forwarded film. In that fraction of a second during which John's senses got the message that Joseph was about to shoot Sherlock, sitting directly in front of him, his reflexes pushed him into a movement so fast his conscious mind simply hadn't time to process it. Like the automatic jerk that pulls your hand away from a hot stove before you understand it is burning, John by the feel of Joseph next move tore himself away from him and used the force of his weight to push him off balance, disturb his hand, loose his aim - something, anything, even the smallest of things, anything at all that would be enough to change the course of the now fired bullet and to steer it from its course set to kill Sherlock.

The deafening bang, and John had managed to break free - Sherlock, was he OK, had the bullet missed - John's eye caught a figure, lying flat

_he's hit_

and then he was on Joseph who had now trouble with this balance thanks to John's sudden jerk and the surprise caused by it, throwing in blows, frantically trying to locate the gun when another bang, equally loud, but not from Joseph's gun because Joseph was now lying on the floor, motionless, and behind John a grunt, and a thumb when something metallic fell to the floor and then a silence, complete and full and horrible like in a tomb.

John doesn't notice the wound on his neck from which blood is now pouring out with an alarming speed. He doesn't notice it because there is no pain and because he doesn't see the blood which is already running down on his chest and staining his shirt; the only thing he sees right now is Sherlock, on the couch on his back, half out from the couch actually, his arms spread on his sides like he would have been crucified to the piece of furniture, the dark hair covering half of his face. John doesn't see his own gun on the floor where it dropped from Sherlock's hand because he is rushing to him and he has no attention left for details.

A heartbeat can last a lifetime. Especially when you are waiting for it to come. 

Hoping for it to come. 

Not from your own chest but from the chest of your flatmate whose face is now paler than you ever remember it being and in which the always so intense eyes start to lose their focus. Whose body lies on the couch, the same one it has lay so many times but never like this, never so still, so quiet, so deprived of life and strength. Staring at the dark red spot quickly expanding on his chest and just waiting, waiting, waiting for that thumb, a sign to prove he is not dead, not now, not like this

_please give me this and i will never ask for anything more_

John Watson is not a religious man and he doesn't know who or what he is asking for Sherlock's life. He doesn't know and it doesn't really matter at all, and there is no relieving thumb, no proof, and John starts the CPR and he can hear the ambulance now, he doesn't remember calling it - how long has it been? - and he blows air into Sherlock's lungs, his lips are so cold and they taste like iron.

And the thumb doesn't come, he doesn't hear it - feel it - and the paramedics are there and suddenly John himself is not any more but in a darkness, deep in it, it is so full and overpowering and he has no choice but to give in to it and let it wash over him.

_please give me this_

_._

_._

_please_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the mistakes with the language, I am not a native English speaker and this chapter hasn't been betaed (since so far I have exhausted every beta I've had :( )
> 
> And thank you for all the kudos, bookmarks and the comments as well, means the world to me!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "John remained standing in the doorway for a while. The pain thumping in his throat was nothing compared to the ache he felt in his heart and mind. It was odd to see Sherlock like that, so out of place; still, passive, out of energy. Defeated.
> 
> He swallowed. It hurt.
> 
> Slowly he walked to his bed and pulled out a chair for himself. John sat down, never letting his eyes leave Sherlock's quiet face, and crossed his arms over his chest. He sat there, staring at the dark man, numbing himself in the even mechanical signals that were the only sounds in the darkening room. It was there where the nurse found him some hours later, his eyes dry and red, staring at Sherlock and waiting for the beeps to come."

_Here in the dark_

_In these final hours,_

_I will lay down my heart_

_And I'll feel the power;_

_But you won't_

_No, you won't_

_Cos I can't make you love me_

_If you don't_

_Bon Iver - I Can´t Make You Love Me_

_._

_._

A room. Quite small. No furniture to speak of, just a plain wooden chair in the corner. No windows and no artificial light either and yet, somehow, it is not dark. The air is pleasantly cool but slightly stale, its stillness and how it feels on his skin reminds him of the wine cellar of the house he grew up in, the one where he hid in when auntie came to visit. He doesn't know where he is or how he got there. He doesn't know much anything; there is something of a void where his logic and reason used to be. His head feels light. It feels strangely nice.

He turns around to study the space, not moving from where he is standing. Slowly, slowly. 360 degrees around himself. There are no doors, either.

Interesting.

The chair is again in his field of vision but it is not empty anymore. It is occupied by his brother, dressed in a deep blue suit Sherlock doesn't recognize and black designer leather shoes. His posture is very rigid; back straight, hands rest palms down on his thighs, feet pressed together. Sherlock can't see a difference between his irises and pupils; Mycroft's eyes puncture his face like two black, bottomless holes. Yet Sherlock knows that even when lacking of visible direction, Mycroft's eyes are always pointed towards him.

For he worries.

"Mycroft." He realizes he is speaking without using his vocal chords. His lips don't move but the message is obviously delivered - Mycroft nods in recognition. It occurs to Sherlock that perhaps Mycroft can read his mind, but quickly dismisses the idea as an absurd one.

Mycroft's mouth doesn't move, either, when he replies.  His voice echoes in Sherlock's head. "Brother." 

Mycroft never calls him that. Partly because Sherlock doesn't allow it; partly because in Mycroft's opinion, using that term simplifies their relationship to a level it cannot be on. But now, for some reason, he does refer to him as what they by blood are and Sherlock is not really bothered by it. Mycroft is, after all, the only thing familiar to him in here (wherever  _here_  is) and even though Sherlock is not afraid he doesn't feel entirely at ease either. The situation is most certainly riveting but it is not in any way anything he has experienced before; there is no reference.

"Where am I?" His voice- if one can call it a voice since he doesn't really speak - is coloured by the curiosity he feels but one can also hear the underlying discomfort due to uncertainty of the whole situation.

Mycroft doesn't move one bit and there is not even a flicker in the complete blackness of his eyes. He could be a two-dimensional image. "Limbo."

Sherlock's head jerks back a bit. "Limbo?" He is a little amused now and it is obvious. "Seriously?"

It must be said the 2D-Mycroft looks very serious.

"Limbo." Sherlock repeats to himself. This time the amusement is gone and he plainly remarks the reality of the situation. "What happened?"

He doesn't know if he remembers or if Mycroft is somehow feeding him with information in the form of the images that now flash through his consciousness. He recalls the events at Baker Street; how Joseph shot him and he shot Joseph with John's gun that by some unbelievably lucky chance had been on the table next to the sofa. He remembers the sharp, burning dagger that sunk into his chest in the form of a bullet. And how, when the damage it caused was already blurring his vision and making it more and more difficult to breathe, he recalls how the bullet he had shot had hit John on its way to Joseph. The last thing he has a visual recollection of is blood spurting out from John's throat.

His worry is immediate and strong ."John? Is he allright?" Did he kill him?

Mycroft denies him this information. "I can't tell." Mycroft's voice doesn't have any tone or colour in it and it seems to be coming not particularly from his direction but from everywhere around the room.

Sherlock is annoyed. "Can't or won't?" Mycroft stares back at him, blankly with his black eyes, and suddenly Sherlock realizes that Mycroft is just a product of his own mind. He himself doesn't know so his portrayal of Mycroft doesn't know. Elementary.

Sherlock falls into a silence for a while. He observes his situation, and it doesn't take long before he understands that he very well might be dying if not already dead. That the bullet that was fired by the deluded serial killer had, in spite of John's attempt to interfere, damaged him in a way he perhaps hasn't been able to overcome. When he thinks about the possibility that he is dead the feelings it evokes are mixed - on one hand, extremely exciting, on the other, impossibly annoying. The thought of dying isn't frightening to him, but to die like this, out of a mundane reason, when there still is so much more left to be done - it just doesn't seem fair.

Suddenly he hears a faint buzz which wakes him up from his thoughts. As he looks up to see the source of it he spots a bee, big and pudgy and healthy, flying slowly around the room keeping close to the ceiling. Sherlock turns his head around to locate where it had came from - the answer is obviously a small door, more like a hatch, which has somewhat unexpectedly appeared into one of the walls. It is located high, close to the ceiling, and it can't be bigger than two by two feet. Perhaps just big enough for a person to squeeze through. As Sherlock looks at the small door he sees that it is ever so slightly ajar, and even if it is relatively far from him - the room is quite high - Sherlock thinks he can feel a breeze of fresh, pure air coming from its general direction.

Sherlock watches the bee as it is buzzes lazily in the air, swirling around his head and then lands somewhere on his back where he cannot see it.

"So this is a goodbye?" The question is more of an acknowledgement. "I'm dying." There is no fear in his voice.

Mycroft cocks his head a bit; the first movement that has emerged from him. "It can be, yes. If you so choose."

Sherlock looks at him, alerted. "I can choose?"

Mycroft sneers. "Of course you can. Or rather, you can try. There's no saying you will succeed. And it will hurt, in more ways than one."

A moment of silence; one really can't say how long as time doesn't exist here. "Will I be OK? Or will I be... damaged?" He sounds cautious, almost hesitant; a life of a vegetable doesn't fascinate him.

Mycroft just stares at him. Again, he doesn't know or isn't allowed to say.

Sherlock snorts. "Why would I go back then? What if I have a brain damage and have to spend the rest of my life dependent on someone else?"

Mycroft sounds very patient. "That's the whole point. You can't just _go_ back. You have to find a reason strong enough - incentive, one could day - to assure your body and mind it is worth the trouble. Mind is a powerful thing, brother, and it can do wonders. But you have to make it work for you." His voice dies without any echo, like it would immerse into the air.

Sherlock nods towards the shaft. "And what's that?"

Mycroft smiles a soft, gentle smile which strikes an odd contrast with his black, emotionless eyes. "You know the answer to that."

The bee takes off again and slips back from the little door. The smell of fresh air is stronger now. "Yes, I suppose I do."

Death.

Sherlock spends a good while thinking. He considers the pros and the cons; he thinks whether or not he feels his life is complete. Are there things left undone? Regret is a feeling Sherlock doesn't recognize, but yet he wonders if some things ought to have been different than they are now. On the other hand, should his body or brain be so damaged that he couldn't operate normally anymore - that would indeed be worse than death.

After a long silence he has made up his mind. His decision is solid; there is no doubt anymore. "I want to go back."

Mycroft replies as if he had been expecting his answer. "Then find a reason."

"I want to live; isn't that enough?" Sherlock sounds impatient.

Mycroft shakes his head. "No." Then he nods towards the back wall behind Sherlock. As he turns around he sees yet another door, bigger - but there are no hinges. The door just blends into the wall where the hinges should be; it is obvious that there is no opening it. Sherlock stares at the odd door when Mycroft speaks again. " _That_  is the door back. To walk from it, you need to have a reason. Whereas the other one," Sherlock looks to the hatch, "is much easier to go through."

"Life's hard." Sherlock's voice is only a mutter.

There is only a silence in reply; when Sherlock turns around to face the chair again, Mycroft is gone. He is alone.

x

x

x

x

He was standing in the corridor. It was early evening and the hospital visiting hours were just about to draw to a close. Every few minute people passed him as he stood there, healthy people - friends, relatives, husbands, wives, children - people who were allowed to leave. People who could leave with their own two feet and head back to their normal lives.

John wasn't one of those people. Neither was Sherlock. The difference between them was, though, that in a day or so John would be excluded from the group known as patients and would be able to walk out, just like those people now rushing by him. Sherlock possibly never would be.

The bullet Sherlock had fired had cut a deep wound into his throat and caused him to bleed severely; it had not been far that he hadn't died of blood loss. Joseph hadn't been equally lucky - the bullet, after giving John a good scratch, had hit Josepg straight between the eyes and he was as dead as the people he had killed. But even as John knew how lucky he was, to have tricked death like that, he found it very difficult to rejoice.

He stared at the door of Sherlock's room, white and anonymous. It seemed so heavy, which was ridiculous; John knew it would open with a light push. But of course it was not the door that gave the impression of heaviness, but what awaited behind.

Sherlock had been badly injured and it was not certain he would survive. The bullet had done a lot of damage, and it was already a miracle of some level that he had came so far. At the moment he was kept in a drug-induced coma; what would happen once it would wear off was uncertain. Unfortunately John knew from his vast experience with this type of injuries that the majority of those who suffered it didn't wake up anymore.

Bracing himself, taking a deep sigh, John put his hand on the knob and pushed the door open. Behind was a room, lit only by the small lamp mounted on the wall above the bed. The yellow light which cast on Sherlock's pale, closed face made him look sick. The shadows and lines on his face were deep, and yet he somehow looked peaceful; there was no pain or suffering to be seen of which John found himself to be grateful. Sherlock's chest raised and lowered evenly in rhythm with the hissing of the life-giving machine, and the even bleep stating his heartbeat was somehow comforting.

John remained standing in the doorway for a while. The pain thumping in his throat was nothing compared to the ache he felt in his heart and mind. It was odd to see Sherlock like that, so out of place; still, passive, out of energy. Defeated.

He swallowed. It hurt.

Slowly he walked to his bed and pulled out a chair for himself. John sat down, never letting his eyes leave Sherlock's quiet face, and crossed his arms over his chest. He sat there, staring at the dark man, numbing himself in the even mechanical messages that were the only sounds in the darkening room. It was there where the nurse found him some hours later, his eyes dry and red, staring at Sherlock and waiting for the beeps to come.

x

x

x

It was the thirtieth day. During that month John hadn't practically left his post next to Sherlock's bed; hour after hour he just sat there, still and motionless, staring at his flatmate who remained in a state of deep unconsciousness even now when the drugs had worn off a long time ago. Sherlock hadn't moved one bit, not even a flinch; no sign of recovery.

John didn't talk to him for he didn't know what to say. It wasn't like there wouldn't have been anything to say - on the contrary, there were a lot of things he was thinking and feeling. John merely didn't have words to voice the bits and pieces of emotions, hopes and fears flying inside his head, partly because he couldn't quite grasp or name them, partly because he was afraid of their impact on himself.

To say something is to make it real; to make something real means you can lose it.

So he was quiet.

Mycroft stopped by once a day, always outside the official visiting hours, often late at night. He sat with John next to Sherlock's bed, equally quiet, and John felt a strange companionship with him. A few times John had heard him talking with the treating doctor with muffled voices; he never asked what they were discussing. His medical knowledge was too vast, too specific on this kind of injuries - He simply didn't want to know, he preferred hope to the brutal truth. So he just stared at Sherlock, looking for any sign of consciousness and blaming himself for what happened.

It was about 10 p.m. on the evening of the eighth day when Mycroft, who had suddenly emerged from the quietness of the room, did a very un-Mycroftly gesture. Standing behind John he put his hand on his shoulder; John could tell by the way he hesitated in putting weight on it that he was not entirely sure how to go about it.

His voice, however, revealed that his attempt of comfort was genuine. "John, they are switching the life support off tonight."

John felt a cold hand gripping his insides; it felt like being stabbed with an icicle. "What?" He didn't look away from Sherlock. His chest rose and lowered in the rhythm of the life-giving machine.

"It's his own wish, John. A month and then all artificial life support has to be taken down." His voice was very even, but John could tell there was a constrained emotion lurking underneath the calm exterior. "He has a living will."

John felt numb. "But he will die."

"It is possible, yes." Mycroft's voice was dry, almost raspy.

John stared at Sherlock, the calm existence that soon wouldn't be anymore. His jaw tightened. "It is probable."

The silence Mycroft offered as a response agreed more strongly than any words ever could have.

x

x

x

It felt like ages had passed in that small room. Sherlock had tried to open the door with force; it had proven to be impossible. The lack of hinges made the exit not much more than an image on the wall, a one he certainly wasn't able to go through. After giving it way too many tries he had accepted that as a fact and tried Mycroft's advice - to come up with a reason, a proper reason why he would - could - go back. Truth of the matter was that he didn't know what he would be going back to - he didn't know what was the state of his mental or physical capabilities. Lack of oxygen causes a brain damage surprisingly fast and it doesn't take much to damage the spine so that you never move your walk again. Sherlock knew he had been shot somewhere on the chest area, which could have in the best case caused both of the said conditions.

So he didn't know what awaited him and it was apparently because of that he had problems finding a reason worthy enough to give it a try.

The plump bees came and went, and every time they did the breeze of fresh air was more strong, more vivid, more tempting. Perhaps the small shaft was a bit more open than it had been; perhaps the whole thing was a bit bigger and easier to reach as well.

He was annoyed with his own incapability to find the reason, to get back to the life he was not ready to give away yet. But he was also tired and agitated by the emptiness that surrounded him. The nothingness he was in was exhausting.

Frustrated he walked to the closed door once more, put his hands on it and rested his forehead against the cool, smooth surface. He was worn out, coming to his wits end; if there was no way for him through this door, perhaps he would just have to take the other one. One thing was for sure - he couldn't stay in this odd room anymore, not a minute longer; he would lose his mind. An eternity in a limbo was not something he yearned for.

Taking a deep breathe he lifted his head and opened his eyes.  _That's it, then._

Slowly, slowly, as if waiting for some kind of miracle to happen and the door suddenly pop open - which it didn't -he turned around to look at the hatch, now transformed into a big door, from which poured in a smell of fresh grass, sunlight and wind.

_In the hospital, John and Mycroft stand next to Sherlock's bed. The attending doctor looks to Mycroft for final confirmation; Mycroft nods._

The door is now fully open and Sherlock walks towards it. He feels the sunlight on his skin; it is inviting after the long time in the small, stuffy room.

_The doctor turns the machines off; the silence explodes in John's ears. Sherlock's chest doesn't move and John closes his eyes, just for a second. He knew it would hurt and yet it feels unbearable._

Sherlock is at the door; he can feel the air now. It smells so good, and he senses a pulse of energy flowing around him and in him, pulling him to take the final step over the threshold. And then a thought comes to him, so strong and vivid it feels like a slap on the face.  _I will miss John._

 _The_ _doctor looks at the clock on the wall. "Time of death..."_

Sherlock turns around and sees the other door wide open.

.

In the hospital Sherlock inhales sharply and opens his eyes.

.

.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's a bit strange turn this fic took, but I hope you liked it? *nervous*


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But it was difficult. He didn't know how to do it, even if he should do it - he simply didn't know how one was supposed to go about in this kind of situation. Even as he didn't remember much from the time he had spent unconscious he recalled feeling isolated, deserted almost, and caged. But he also recalled, very faintly, a moment of clarity, just before waking up - and that life-giving moment had had something to do with man now rummaging in the kitchen. Something very fundamental had changed in Sherlock; suddenly, he cared.

.

.

.

_So sacrifice yourself and let me have what's left_

_I know that I can find the fire in your eyes_

_I'm going all the way, get away, please_

_._

_You take the breath right out of me_

_You left a hole where my heart should be_

_You got to fight just to make it through_

_'cause I will be the death of you_

_._

_Breaking Benjamin - Breath_

_._

Sherlock fought for breath, gasping and coughing, drew it in with the desperation of a man who has nearly drowned and now can't get enough of the precious substance in his lungs. Every muscle in his body was tensed to its limits, hands clutched the bed sheets with a grip so strong the fabric almost tore and suddenly his back arched and head flew back, violently, the spasms jolting through his body. The eyes that had been closed for weeks were now wide open, but it was obvious he didn't see anything - his pupils were fully dilated, the black of them filling his irises, his look glazed and not focused on anything; like his head was filled with void that was now pouring out from his eyes.

"He's seizing, call for help, now!" The doctor, having recovered from the initial shock caused by the fact that the man he had been about to pronounce dead was suddenly alive, even if his body seemed to protest towards the sudden turn of the events, rushed to Sherlock and grabbed him, turning him on his side. John reacted faster than Mycroft who stared at the situation with the same expression on his face that John knew was on his own as well - shock, surprise and disbelief mixed with wild, uncontrollable hope. John stormed into the corridor and shouted to the nurses some tens of meters down on it for help, to come now, do something, fast. The nurses ran past him, rushing into the room from which Mycroft was now being ushered out, slamming the door close behind them, not allowing bewildered John and Mycroft in anymore.

John stood there, staring at that bloody mute door, feeling his heart beating like crazy in his chest and fighting the urge to kick the door in and go in there, maybe he could help, Sherlock wasn't dead - but he knew it would only interfere, that those people knew what they were doing. So he held himself back, cluthing his hands into tight fists.

He glanced at Mycroft who was standing next to him, also staring at the door behind which his suddenly resurrected brother was possibly fighting yet another losing battle, and the same fear that was painted all over his own face he recognized on Mycroft's - fear to hope.

For a while they were too much in a shock to speak and just stood there in complete silence. They heard the muffled sounds coming from the room but couldn't make anything out of them. Neither of them moved out of the fear that the sounds caused by it would prohibit them from hearing something important, from gaining knowledge of what was happening behind that wall of a door.

Then Mycroft spoke, his voice distant and disbelief all over it. "He's not dead. Sherlock's not dead."

John shook his head, slowly, and felt the hope he was trying to control raising its head inside him. "No."

_Not yet, at least_

They both realized the prospective reality of the unuttered words; they both did their best to ignore it.

.

They had sat down on chairs outside the door, waiting for it to open and both fearing and hoping for the message that would come along with it. It hadn't taken long even if it felt like an eternity when the doctor finally creaked the door open and slipped outside. The two men were both on their feet in an instant.

The doctor - Moore, it said in his name tag - closed the door carefully behind him before turning back to face the impatience radiating from both John and Mycroft. John was scared, he really was - and at the same time he was dying to know what was going on. He wasn't able to read the older man's face, no hint of what had happened behind the closed door was visible in the brown, tired eyes.

Dr. Moore's voice was very gentle. "Dr. Watson, Mr. Holmes - "

Mycroft cut in. "Is he alright? is Sherlock alright?"

If it bothered Dr. Moore to be interrupted he didn't let it show. "He should be, in a day or two."

All the tension that had built up in John's body released itself in one go; he hadn't even realized he had been holding his breath. A wave of relief washed over him, filling his every conscious cell. Vaguely he heard Dr. Moore explaining how Sherlock had suffered a seizure, not very unexpected in this kind of situation even if the situation itself and him being alive in the first place was just that, unexpected, and that he should be considered an extremely lucky man, but John didn't really pay any attention to it. All that really mattered to him right then was that Sherlock was alive, and that he would be alive. He would open his eyes and he would stand up and walk, and talk, and be obnoxious and annoy the hell out of everybody; he would be brilliant and impossible and all that, he wouldn't be dead.

"When can I see him?" John heard his own voice asking. It seemed like an important thing to know.

Dr. Moore looked down on his papers and then back to John and Mycroft. "Mr. Holmes needs some rest now, but perhaps tomorrow. If all goes well." He sounded very severe about it, but John could tell that he was equally glad as they were over the fact Sherlock had pulled through.

John nodded, not realizing he had a smile on his face.

.

Sherlock slept a lot. Maybe it was his body recovering from the traumas, maybe his mind trying to make sense of what had happened to him; either way, he spent long periods of time in deep, calm sleep, laying equally still as he had when he had been in a coma. For John, however, there was a huge difference - for him the sleeping Sherlock had nothing to do with the unconscious Sherlock. He now had life in him, even in his sleep; his eyelids quivered and every now and then there was a movement - a twitch in an arm or leg, very settle but still visibly there. These small signs made all the difference for they told John that Sherlock would open his eyes in some point.

It was relieving, and he was grateful.

Sherlock came in and out, dozing off from sleep to reality and back to sleep. The first time he had woken up John had been sitting by his bed, in a chair that had became so familiar to him over that past month. John had been looking at him as he lay in his sleep and then a sudden change in the way he breathed - for a split second a feeling of panic grabbed John's insides, was something wrong - and then he realized Sherlock had merely woken up.

Sherlock opened his eyes. He was staring at the ceiling and the brightness of the room made him blink a few times; it seemed he wasn't entirely sure where he was or what was going on. Then he closed his eyes again, the expression on his face very relaxed and calm. Satisfied, almost. John kept his eyes on him, not sure if he had fallen back to sleep. He didn't want to disturb him so he didn't say anything, just studied his sharp features carefully in case some sign of being awake would show itself.

Sherlock lay quiet for some ten minutes. Then, just as John was about sure he had fallen back into slumber, his eyes suddenly flashed open again and he turned his look to John. For a while Sherlock stared at the man by his bed, quiet, his face unreadable and eyes still somehow distant; then the expression on his face softened into a faint smile and his eyes gained focus.

"John." His voice was not much stronger than a whisper, and it was coarse for not being used in such a long time.

John, not even thinking what he was doing, lent forward and lifted his hand to the bed, placing it over Sherlock's. "Welcome back." His voice was quiet, as well; it felt thick in his throat.

Sherlock's long fingers tangled into John's, pressing his hand. A physical gesture so simple and yet it withheld all that was necessary to convey in that moment.

Sherlock closed his eyes again and was back asleep. His breathing was peaceful and even as his body used all the resources it had to fix itself.

For how long John sat there, Sherlock's hand in his own and his chest filling with pure, genuine gratitude, he didn't know.

x

x

Sherlock sat in his bed, the head end of it raised so that he was in a half-sitting posture. The hospital room with its pale color schemes and steel-framed furniture made any living being in it seem sick and frail; added to that the non-coloured hospital gown, hanging loosely on his thin frame and the iv-drip taped into the back of his hand completed the recovering patient-look. Sherlock's hands were resting on his abdomen and he seemed to be looking out from the window, seemingly unaware of John who had quietly opened the door in case Sherlock would have been asleep. The cold early morning light coming from the window cast on him, accentuating the paleness of his skin and the crystal-like clarity of his eyes. He looked calm, almost serene.

John lent on the door frame, his hands folded over his chest, and just watched the man he had spent the past month and then some staring at. Sherlock had lost some weight; his cheekbones jutted out from his already angular face, and his shoulders seemed sharper under the thin fabric than they usually did. Yet he seemed to be in a reasonably good state, at least judging by the fact that this was the first time John saw him sitting up in his bed. It was actually the first time he saw Sherlock properly conscious; so far he had been awake just snippets of time, not long or coherent enough to properly communicate with him. It was so strange to see him like that again, awake and functioning; a change most certainly welcomed.

John cleared his throat. "How are you feeling, then?" Such a non-nonchalant question to present after everything that had happened, and yet it was the most important.

Sherlock turned his face to him. His eyes were as piercing as ever and the look in them was clear and present - there was no trace of the haziness that had been occupying them during the past days. "Like somebody drove over me with a truck." His voice was dry but he sounded good-humored.

John chuckled. "So good, considering the circumstances." He walked to Sherlock's bed and sat down to the chair he had spent so much time in during the last month. "Seriously, though. You took quite a beating."

Sherlock lent back on the bed, letting his head rest against the raised surface of it. "So I've heard. He shot me, then?"

John's eyes dropped to his feet for a second. "Yeah. I tried to-"

Sherlock interrupted him. "I know you did. You probably saved my life." He stated this in a very matter-of-fact tone.

John crossed his fingers over his chest and lent back in his chair, as well. "Wasn't that far that I didn´t." He wasn't looking for praise; he merely felt he could have - should have - done more.

Sherlock dismissed his unnecessary modesty immediately. "Thank you." His voice was quiet but the look in his eyes was sincere and somehow very intense.

They stayed quiet for a while. Then Sherlock turned his eyes back to the window. "How are you?" There was guilt in his voice he wasn't even trying to hide.

John raised his hand on his throat; the wound on it was still visible. "Alright, I guess.. Given that you shot me."

Sherlock looked back at him, sharply and with a tinge of worry on his face, only to see the laughter in John's eyes. "Sorry about that." He did sound apologetic - a tone John couldn't say he would have been used to.

John grinned. "Don't mention it. I'm all good."

Sherlock looked down to his hands and then again out from the window. There seemed to be something off in him, something different than before - he appeared to be more thoughtful, more quiet. Not that he had ever been the king of small talk but now there seemed to be a new layer on him, something John didn't quite know how to approach. Like he would have had something on his mind. Then again, given that he had just woken up from a coma John thought it better to leave it at that and not press him too much.

Turning the conversation into a lighter direction seemed to be in order. "Do you know when they are letting you leave?" The thought of getting back to normal life - well, as normal as it ever could get with someone like Sherlock around - in Baker Street felt almost exhilarating.

Sherlock shrugged his bony shoulders. "They didn't say, but it shouldn't be long anymore. I can ask Mycroft to speed things up."

Even as the thought of leaving the hospital behind was an appealing one, John still sounded hesitant. "Do you really think that it is a good idea? What if there are complications, I mean, shouldn't you be around doctors?"

Sherlock looked at him with a striking clarity in his eyes; his gaze was impossible to interpret. "But I will be, John." His tone, however, was not.

Any answer John might have had got stuck in his throat.

x

x

x

At the evening of the next day Sherlock was allowed to leave the hospital. How many strings Mycroft had pulled John didn't know - what he did know was the very strict instructions give to him by Dr. Moore - no physical or emotional stress (John didn't know if Sherlock was even capable of experiencing the latter so that should be easy), lots of fluids, continuous monitoring - the works. Basically taking it easy until he would get his strength back.

John dreaded that phrase - take it easy - and Sherlock in the same sentence, but still agreed readily on everything the doctor said. He would just have to deal with it. Oddly enough he wanted to deal with it. Whatever that meant.

It had to be said, however, that there appeared to be an uncharacteristic stillness in Sherlock's presence. When John had told him Dr. Moore had given him a pass to leave, he had just nodded and asked if John wouldn't mind calling a cab. On the way out, even if walking himself, he had momentarily lent on the shorter man for support; he was obviously still physically very weak. What was interesting about this was that Sherlock didn't seem to mind that he had to ask John for help. Or he didn't ask, technically speaking, but he accepted it without being seemingly annoyed by the offer. So the new layer in him which John had noticed earlier but had put on the account of just having woken up from a coma was still there. Sherlock wasn't a changed man, not by far, but there definitely was something that hadn't been there before.

The relief John had felt over Sherlock's recovery had kept him occupied on the emotional level ever since the consulting detective had woken up. He hadn't had time to think about much anything else, but now as they were back at Baker Street, in the familiar environment and facing the start of normal life again, the unrecognizable emotions and feelings he had experienced when sitting by his bedside all those days, confronted with the possibility of his death, came back to John. He still didn't know what it was exactly that he was feeling as the words continued to evade him; all he was certain of was that the thought of Sherlock's death had affected him much more strongly than he ever would have thought possible. Now, as he watched the thin, dark man sitting in his chair, quiet and thoughtful as he was, weak as a kitten but still that certain fire in him - no, perhaps it was the fear of losing a friend talking?

It had to be. What else could it have been?

Right?

x

x

Sherlock was glad to be alive. Even if he generally speaking wasn't exactly what one would call a happy person, as it often is the case with very intelligent people, he felt true and honest joy over the fact that he wasn't dead but breathing and functioning as he had been. There would be no permanent traumas on him; in time, he would recover his physical strength and he could go about his life as he had.

Except he couldn't.

When he had woken up that first time in the hospital he had been completely disoriented- he hadn't had any idea where or when he was or what was going on. Then he had sensed a presence in the room and in an instant he had known it was John, and that recognition had offered him a peace of mind. Later on, when he had woken up properly and heard what had happened and how close to death he had been, it had continued to comfort him that John had been by his side through all of it. And finally, when he had been allowed to leave the hospital it was John who had helped him when he staggered, keeping him steady with his arm around his waist - and Sherlock hadn't minded leaning on him. In fact, it had felt proper.

Back at home it was John who sat him down, made him tea, kept the outside world and its realities out for one day more, allowing Sherlock the much needed time to reflect. All this John had done not in a fussing, annoying and patronizing way but in that calm, quiet manner of his, not making a big deal out of it. It made Sherlock want to reach out and touch him, say thank you, look at his face, feel the warmth that was radiating from him.

But it was difficult. He didn't know how to do it, even if he  _should_  do it - he simply didn't know how one was supposed to go about in this kind of situation. Even as he didn't remember much from the time he had spent unconscious he recalled feeling isolated, deserted almost, and caged. But he also recalled, very faintly, a moment of clarity, just before waking up - and that life-giving moment had had something to do with man now rummaging in the kitchen. Something very fundamental had changed in Sherlock; suddenly, he cared.

The problem really was that he didn't know how. What he knew, though, was that something most certainly needed to be done.

John was finishing the dinner in the kitchen - nothing special, just some pasta with a simple tomato-based sauce and a nice salad, something he hoped Sherlock would agree on. He had insisted he wasn't hungry; John had insisted that he must eat or he would call him an ambulance to take him back to the hospital and drip feed. Sherlock had then yielded, perhaps slightly unexpectedly, and John had whisked together something as fast as he could so that he wouldn't have time to back out of it.

It was almost done - he was just grating some Parmesan to go with the dish when a shadow on the wall in front of him told him Sherlock was standing between him and the living room. John, who had been standing his back to the living room, turned around with the grater and the cheese still in his hands and saw what he had expected - the tall man on the doorway, staring at him with an unreadable expression on his face. The light was coming from behind Sherlock and the kitchen was dimly lit - the bulb was drawing its last breaths - so John couldn't see his face that well.

"You should be resting, you know." John didn't sound worried or patronizing, he just stated the obvious.

Sherlock's voice was equally stripped of any tone. "I know." The way he looked at John, however, bore much more; his eyes seemed to be darker than they normally were, so intense and somehow searching - or perhaps it was just the general lack of light playing a trick on him. Surely.

John stayed quiet for few seconds, not knowing exactly how to react to Sherlock's somewhat unfamiliar behavior. Then he broke the silence with a voice bit too loud. "Well, food's done, if you just-"

"John." The change in Sherlock's tone was so obvious, so tangible - and yet John didn't have a clue what it meant. So he didn´t say anything but remained silent, waiting for him to continue.

Sherlock stood still a few seconds and then, as if something had suddenly occurred to him, closed the distance between himself and John with two, long strides, took the grater and the cheese from John's hands and placed them carefully on the counter next to them. As he turned his face and attention back to John, it became in an instant very noticeable to him that Sherlock was standing very close and that John himself was back against the desk; he could feel the edge of the counter pressing against him. Being pinned like that between a rock and Sherlock reminded him of some previous situation - something not so long ago.

Sherlock studied John's face, trying to retract something he didn't know he was looking to find, to locate an answer to a question he hadn't presented for he didn't know what he was asking. John's eyes met his gaze with a steady if slightly questioning look in them; it had become more or less apparent that the only possible thing for him to do was just to wait Sherlock's next move, whatever it would be.

As Sherlock continued to scan John with his intense stare, his face very close to his, out from nowhere arose the memory of what it meant, what John meant, and why he was still alive - it was suddenly so clear, so obvious - and he did the only thing he could think of, took John's face between his hands and lowered his lips down to meet his. Very softly, very gently, careful and questioning - and to his surprise John didn't pull back, didn't break the kiss or disagree in any way but instead responded, his lips were pleasant against his own and Sherlock could really feel him now, not only allowing the kiss but kissing him back. It felt correct, and natural, and above all it felt good.

After a few lingering seconds Sherlock pulled back, just a bit, his lips just an inch away from John's and his hands still resting on each side of his face. He felt John's breath on his skin and the warmth immersing into his own body through the palms resting on the shorter man's face. His lean frame was very close to John's,  _very_  close, and he was able to feel his hips pressing against John's harder than it was probably necessary. He noticed his heart was beating on an elevated rate and that his breathing was a bit shallow. A range of emotions and sensations flashed through him, all of them which he couldn't grasp and some of them which he hadn't experienced in a very long time, if ever.

Sherlock stepped back half a step and looked at John, very intently; looked for a reaction, a conclusion - anything to give him a direction.

John didn't turn his eyes away. He felt flustered; the same jolt of energy he had felt when Sherlock had kissed him in the alley what now seemed like a lifetime ago was again pulsating in his body as if Sherlock's lips on his own would have fed it into him. He felt slightly out of breath, as well, as the variety of emotions he had been tackling with during the past weeks now manifested themselves to him with such clarity he found it hard to believe he hadn't realized them before. It was so simple, and at the same time it was the most complicated thing ever.

Because it was Sherlock he was dealing with here. You never knew with him.

John cleared his throat. It sounded like an explosion in the complete silence that was surrounding them. "Was there another killer you needed to dodge?" His tone wasn't exactly in correspondence with his attempt of a joke.

Sherlock shook his head, slowly. The look in his eyes was somehow startled; he seemed to be equally surprised of what he had just done as John was. "No, I wanted to.. I needed to." He had never been so bare, so exposed.

John looked at him under his brows. His mouth felt dry and his heart seemed to be right about to explode from his chest. "And?"

Sherlock shifted his weight from one foot to another. He appeared to be slightly agitated, not precisely sure what to do, but the look in his eyes continued to be very genuine; there was a level of vulnerability in him. After a few seconds of silence it appeared he had made up his mind and extended his hand towards John, palm upwards. "Your call."

John looked at his hand, then back to Sherlock's eyes. "Are you sure?" He needed to know; some kind of assurance, no matter how weak, to give him courage to do what he already knew he would do.

Sherlock nodded, his eyes never leaving John's. "I am sure. I don't know how it will be, how I will be.." His voice faded, and they both knew what he meant with what he had said and understood the danger veiled in that simple statement. Then, with a tone very deep and soft, "but I am sure."

The step John took to him was something that remained in his memory for a long, long time. When he later on looked back on that moment, later when he already realized how defining it had been, how significant, what he recalled was the intoxicating, overwhelming mixture of different emotions completely taking over him. It was something he had never experienced before and never would again; at the same time to feel that nervous, to the point of being almost terrified, and still be so unquestionably certain of what you were doing was what you wanted to. What you  _had_  to.

_Moth to a flame-_

_If one must burn, so be it._

x

x

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two more chapters to go!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, just as it can be too cold to snow, you can be too tired to give up.
> 
> So John tried. He did everything he could think of to make things work between them - pulling back, being there, loving him, hating him. Giving him space, holding him down, anything he could think of. It seemed that nothing was ever quite right, that something always triggered a tension or a fight. Made him anxious. The good moments they shared slowly became contaminated by the bad.

_Telling me to go  
But hands beg me to stay_

_Your lips say that you love_   
_Your eyes say that you hate_

_There's truth in your lies_   
_Doubt in your faith_   
_What you build you lay to waste_

_This truth in your lies_   
_Doubt in your faith_   
_All I've got is what you didn't take_

_._

_Linkin Park - In Pieces_

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

**1 month**

John woke up to the feeling that he was being observed. He turned his head to the right, movements still slowed down by sleep,  and saw a familiar pair of eyes staring at him, very close and very intense. Sherlock lay next to him, on his stomach, arms crossed in front of him and head resting on them, turned to John and face so close John was able to feel his breath on his skin. What he also felt was the warmth radiating from his what John now saw naked body; he resisted the urge to reach out and touch the pale skin.

"Good morning." John's voice was raspy as it often in the morning was.

Sherlock stared at him, not blinking but yet his overall expression was relaxed. Soft, almost. "Morning, John." The velvet that was his voice drawled out like the purr of a lazy cat. The early morning sun filtrating in through the curtains reflected in his eyes and gave them a glint. Or at least John thought it was the sun.

John turned his eyes to the ceiling. He lay still, waiting the white light of the dawning day to wake him up properly. He felt a bit groggy, probably due to the fact that it was still a relatively early - at least judging by the height of the sun. After the countless number of mornings he had woken up in this bed he was now able to roughly tell them time by the place of the sun spots on the wall - and he hadn't gotten into sleep until very late at night thanks to a long night shift and unexpected emergency surgery at the clinic.

Of course he could have asked Sherlock to let him sleep. Of course he could have asked him to get out from his bed. And of course he didn't. He never could.

Sherlock crossed his arms under his chest and lifted his upper body. His face was now hovering over John's, lips nonchalantly brushing his ear, his dark curls lightly tickling his cheek. John swallowed; he could already feel himself hardening - he just couldn't help it, not with Sherlock.When it came to him, John was unarmed.

Sherlock lowered his lips on John's, soft and light at first, teasing, and then harder, hungry and demanding, leaving him no other option than to succumb to his will. Every time Sherlock kissed him John felt it, the raw and pure energy transferring between them. It arose a need in him, stronger than he had ever felt with anyone else and he allowed himself to be taken away by it, getting lost in Sherlock's lips on his own, on his face, on his body, Sherlock's hunger everywhere, and he wanted to do nothing more than to feed him, give him what he wanted, anything.

x

x

x

**2 months**

John hadn't seen Sherlock in three days. He hadn't left a note, hadn't sent a text, nothing; and yet somehow John knew that there was nothing wrong with him per se, he just chose to be somewhere else. Somewhere away from John, away from the domesticity of it all. It hurt, there was no denying of that; and yet at the same time John knew he had no place to be upset about it. After all, Sherlock had never promised anything.

_They lay on the living room floor, side by side, both naked. It had been the first time they had had sex, a week after Sherlock was released from the hospital. John hadn't thought it would have been a good idea earlier; he was afraid of Sherlock's health as he was still in recovery. He also wasn't quite sure if Sherlock had even wanted to; after all, during the time they had known each other Sherlock had never expressed any interest towards sex. But on the night of the seventh day John had woken up in the middle of the night to a sound he couldn't place the origin of and had gotten up to check what, if something, was amiss._

_He had found Sherlock in the living room, sitting by the window wearing only in his robe. There was no light on in the room, thus the only source of it was the street lamp, the pale hue of which reflected on Sherlock's face. John glanced at the watch; it was 3.30 am._

_"Can't sleep?" Sherlock hadn't looked at him but of course he knew John was in the room._

_Keeping his eyes fixed on something on the other side of the window Sherlock replied with a voice slightly thoughtful, "I'm thinking."_

_John resisted the urge to sneer. But of course he was._

_Instead he walked to him, slowly and a bit unsure - it was still so new, to look at Sherlock like this, to want to touch him and not quite knowing how to go about it - he scolded himself for being so insecure but couldn't help it. Sherlock, in a way, imitated him; now that John wanted him like this, felt these things when looking at his... friend, when Sherlock no longer was only a friend - John couldn't help feeling nervous._

_John stopped next to the chair Sherlock was sitting in and thought about putting his hand on his shoulder, but then decided against it and placed it on the back rest. "About what?"_

_Sherlock broke his stare away from whatever he had been gazing at and turned his eyes to meet John's . His eyes were deep, so intense, so impossible to read; but his voice was soft. "You. Me. Us." There might have been a wry smile on his face but so faint one couldn't be sure. His slightly narrowed eyes made him look a bit devilish._

_John felt his heartbeat speeding up a bit. "Is there an us?"_

_True, they had kissed; there had been visible signs on both of them that a physical interaction of more fundamental type was desirable - something John had decided against before things escalated too far because of Sherlock's physical health - but there really hadn't been much out of the ordinary afterwards. A few touches which one could have categorized as beyond the friendship they had shared before; certain types of looks every now and then; double meanings in some of the things they had said - but nothing solid, nothing sure, nothing that would have convinced John once and for all that what had taken place in the kitchen a week ago hadn't just been a dream._

_Sherlock adjusted his position so that his face was now properly turned to John, hovering on the level of his abdomen. "I told you. It's your call."_

_It took John a few heartbeats for his words to sink in and to interpret them together with the look on Sherlock's face. His call, his decision, his responsibility, his risk - and yet, even as Sherlock so simply and without guilt shed himself of all the possible weight the future may have had in store for them, the choice wasn't a difficult one to make._

_It wasn't a choice even, really._

_John, not  completely acknowledging what he was doing, took Sherlock's face between his hands - very much like Sherlock had done a week ago to him - and kissed him in the weak light of the silent room. What started out as a soft, almost caressing touch turned in seconds into something entirely different as the hunger woken up by the promise given seven days ago, kept bottled up for days, broke loose in both of them._

_Sherlock stood up from the chair, never letting the kiss break, his hands all over John, meeting the eagerness of John's on Sherlock. The sheer amount of pure lust and passion was beyond either one's realm of previous experiences; so strong and honest, so raw -  impossible to contain or control. Useless to even try._

_Sherlock tore John's t-shirt off on him; John untied his robe, slipped his hands under it and with one, swift movement of John's hands Sherlock was naked, his lithe body bathing in the white light of the street lamp. He was beautiful to look at, the wound that was still visible on his chest only accentuating the marvel of the rest of him; the small crack in an otherwise perfect surface that makes the whole unique._

_Tangled in each other they quickly found themselves on the floor, Sherlock on top of John, releasing him from his pants as fast as he could, his long fingers working close to the area John was yearning for him to touch. John felt Sherlock's weight on him, pinning him against the floor, Sherlock's erection more than noticeable against his abdomen. Never in his life had John wanted another human being so badly; he needed to have Sherlock, completely, as much as he wanted Sherlock to have him in return. It was intoxicating and empowering; getting lost in a moment like that, drowning into another human being and not thinking about anything or anyone but the man whose hands were now stroking your hardness, reaching out to him in return, not getting enough of his lips on yours, devouring and demanding._

_Sherlock's breathing was as heavy as John's heartbeat was fast. He pressed his body against Sherlock's as hard as he could, craving for its heat, the feel of their skins touching. It felt as if there wasn't enough of Sherlock even when there was nothing else than him, everywhere; and still every cell in John's being was screaming for more. His hands were full of him, a fistful of dark hair, a shoulder blade's angle fitting perfectly in the cup of his palm, John's hands on Sherlock's narrow hips, feeling the muscle and the bone dancing underneath the warm skin. It was a continuous flow of sensations and touches, lips and hands everywhere, and all both of them wanted and could possibly ever imagine wanting was to feel the other, a bit closer, deeper, more full, completely._

_Sherlock bit his shoulder when he entered him, and for a short moment John't heart and breathing stopped, the pure power of the sensation was almost too much for him; his body tensed for a second and then, feeling Sherlock slowly moving in him and his strong grip working on John's own erection, taking him towards the already quickly approaching climax, John let the pureness of the moment wash over him, getting lost in it completely. They were on the floor, on their side, Sherlock was fucking him and it was just that amazing, like nothing ever before; this kind of desire, this kind of pleasure, Sherlock's other hand holding him around his chest and the other one giving him such raw satisfaction, sweat on their skins, Sherlock's hungry mouth on his neck, oh god yes-_

_They came almost simultaneously as you only do when the sex is just right, honest and pure, with an exploding force, high voltage of extreme pleasure overtaking both of their bodies. John felt it coming some seconds before it did, and yet the power and depth of his orgasm made him almost black out for a second; a blink of an eye later as Sherlock's grip on him tightened with a force pushing the air out of John's lungs and he buried his face in John's neck John knew that Sherlock had not been left far from the pleasure that was currently washing over him._

_Afterwards, laying on the floor, Sherlock had suddenly spoken with a voice very quiet, almost sad. "I can't know."_

_John nodded in the dark room, even if he knew Sherlock wasn't able to see it. He understood what he meant; he had understood the complexity of it all, the complexity of him, long before Sherlock had uttered the words out loud._

_John's voice was equally quiet, but the tone of it told Sherlock that he was willing to take the risk. "Nobody can."_

_And he really was willing. So was Sherlock. But there never were any guarantees._

x

x

**3 months**

"You're using again." John tried not to sound accusing.

Sherlock glanced at him, the look in his eyes impossible to interpret. He sniffed a few times and rubbed his nose with the back of his hand. He was pushing it, of course John knew that much. Had Sherlock wanted to he could have been able to pull out a sober act, or at least dodge John so that confrontation wouldn't have been necessary. Instead, he had chosen to expose himself to him, to get a reaction, make John angry; feed on his disappointment on him and attempt to contain his frustration.

Sherlock's eyes were in a constant movement, as if looking something to focus on but never finding it. He tapped his left thigh with his fingers; small, constant movement all over him. Like something inside him struggling to get out.

"What if I am?" His voice was dry and defiant at the same time. He sniffed again and John wondered how far he was from a nosebleed.

"You're being childish." He needed something, something to make Sherlock realize how stupid he was acting. And, even if he didn't admit it to himself, something that would give him the upper hand.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sneered. "You're being boring." It was an easy reply to throw and John had been expecting it; even so, it stung.

John lifted his hand in a sign of resignation. "Maybe I am. At least I'm not high. I'm going to bed."

Not long ago Sherlock would have followed him, undressed him, claimed him as his own. Now he just stared at John with cold, narrowed eyes and shrugged his shoulders. "Fine."

The sound of the door closing behind him had an echo of finality in it.

x

x

x

x

**4 months**

Sometimes, just as it can be too cold to snow, you can be too tired to give up.

So John tried. He did everything he could think of to make things work between them - pulling back, being there, loving him, hating him. Giving him space, holding him down, anything he could think of. It seemed that nothing was ever quite right, that something always triggered a tension or a fight. Made him anxious. The good moments they shared slowly became contaminated by the bad.

In truth it must be said that Sherlock probably tried, too. But he couldn't pull it through, couldn't overcome his own obstacles and resentment and incapability for meaningful human relationships; couldn't control his too fast a mind and contain the anxiety caused by the situation he had placed himself in; an emotional connection, something expected of him on a level beyond professional field. He tried, for he needed John, really; but the restlessness grew, and even if he tried to tackle it, suffocate it, be better - he wanted to care, he needed to care, but it suffocated him. He withered. And John watched him as he did, went through it all, and he didn't know which would be more painful - never to have Sherlock or watch him suffer like he did.

So as hard as they may have both tried, eventually it became evident that it just wasn't enough. Their efforts wasted away like water that runs through cupped fingers until only little bit is left. So little that it is not enough to drench your thirst.

What they had, what they were - it was beyond categorization as well as it was beyond possible.

So they parted.

It wasn't after a fight. On the contrary, things had been more or less fine for a while, at least on the surface. Instead it was after a question, seemingly innocent, presented by John on a cold and dark January evening. It was that question, and how he saw Sherlock's back tighten, his whole being flinching by the mundane, everyday thing that people - couple - ask each other because it is what you do. To see him react like that crystallized everything in a one, single sharp second.

_What would you like to eat?_

In that moment, through the involuntary and probably unconscious reaction of Sherlock's mind and body, it became so very painfully apparent to John that this would never work, not with Sherlock. He simply was not capable of this, no matter how much he may have even wanted to be. No matter how much they both wanted. It was too domestic, too ordinary, too restricting, too much. Too out of his area; brilliant as he may have been, in this quest he failed miserably. There are some things you cannot know with your brain because you need to know them by heart; Sherlock didn't.

What tore John was that he knew they would go on, Sherlock would not break it off. He needed John as much as John needed him, and his admittance to failure was not something to be considered to take place. So what was required of John in that moment, after seeing what he just had seen and understanding what it meant, was to be the stronger out of the two of them and do what had to be done.

If he would stay, if they would continue - it would kill Sherlock. Not physically, perhaps, but that was not what was at stake here.

He remembered how what now seemed like a so long time ago he had asked for Sherlock's life.  _Give me this and I'll never ask for anything more_  - and yet here he was. Asking for his love, his presence, something that wasn't even his to ask or him to give.

John looked at him, one last time, the dark man with wild hair sitting in his chair, quiet and somehow resigned. Trying to preserve that moment, that image of the man he so desperately loved and needed and wanted and yet never could have. To capture that one last moment so that it would be enough for him for a lifetime; and at the same time knowing he would fail in this, that nothing would ever be enough.

John closed his eyes, just for a second, making that last second count. Then, with the aura of a man who has fought a battle and lost, he took his jacket from the wardrobe and stepped out from the door.

It had started to snow.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (don't hate me please)


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was childish of Sherlock, of course it was. And yet John wasn't so surprised by his behaviour, not any more when the pain of parting had changed from cutting and tearing to a dull throbbing; a man so complex and eccentric - how could he have not behaved the way he did, after being given the open option to do so?

.

.

_I ran away_

_I could not take the burden of both me and you_

_It was too fast_

_Casting love on me as if it were a spell I could not break_

_When it was a promise I could not make_

_._

_But what if I was wrong?_

_What if I was wrong?_

_._

_Mumford & Sons - Hold on to What You Believe_

_._

_._

_x_

x

When John had left on that cold winter evening, together with the sound of the door slamming shut Sherlock had expected a surge of relief. He had awaited an intoxicating rush of freedom, room to breathe again as the heavy burden of expectations were lifted from him; that he no longer had to feel he was being held accountable for his actions.

To his genuine surprise, he felt no such thing.

This was because - and it would have been obvious to any outside observer - there never had been such a pressure placed on him from the outside; John had never expected anything nor made claims of any kind. The part Sherlock had thought he had been forced to play had not been presented to him by John, nor their relationship, but by his own folly; it was Sherlock who had put the stress and the endless list of expectations on himself. This was partly due to the fact that he more or less assumed that that is how relationships work and partly because he didn't have a clue as to how they actually do.

The one example he had - the relationship between his parents - had been one based on trying to live up to some obscure, evasive standard of how things _should_ be, instead of what would have brought happiness. This quest for the impossible resulted to the situation where his parents had been like characters in an odd, twisted play that was called their marriage. Sherlock's mother, strong and self-assured as she may have been, had never really been able to fill her husband's mental image of an ideal wife - a standard not set by himself but more by the expectations and social norms of the society. Vice versa, the stern, quiet man hadn't succeeded in being the type of husband and father his wife had thought she ought to want him to be. This mutual failure in both giving and receiving and above all, understanding, what truly mattered, had led to the demise of the once deeply passionate marriage, around the time Sherlock had came to an age of understanding. Yet his parents had stayed together, in that lifeless shell of an union, constantly trying to reach the bar set by themselves; a bar they could never have reached even if they had still loved each other. To young Sherlock, caught in between the two parents, this had been a shaping experience and he quickly came to resent the codes of conduct that an established intimate relationship seemed to demand.

So when John hadn't came back after that evening, and the reality - that he wouldn't - dawned on him, Sherlock felt, to both his surprise and shock, not relief but a strong sense of loss, and also - which was probably much more difficult for him to process and accept - a feeling of dread, of finality; that a chance had been given and he had indeed fucked it up. Genius as he was, this was something he couldn't quite comprehend - how was it that when something that had put such a strain on him was now apparently over, he wasn't able to rejoice? How was it even _possible_ that when that strange, foreign object in his space that he had not known how to deal with - the intimate, emotional relationship with John - that had suffocated him so and driven him almost mad was now gone, he still felt he couldn't breathe?

It was upsetting not only because the distress was not gone but it was also possibly even stronger, with a different, undefined tone in it; his anxiety now held a twinge of guilt, and above all, remorse. Therefore, Sherlock concluded to his great annoyance and disbelief, that his deduction for the reason for his restless state during the recent past had, no doubt, been wrong.

And  _that_  was disturbing.

Of course the bare, unquestionable truth was that he missed John. Sherlock didn't understand this at first; he was too busy with coming to terms with the apparent failure in his thought process. So he spent days and days trying to look at the situation at hand from different angles, to come up with some kind of plausible explanation as of why he was still so bothered and restless. He even considered calling Mycroft to ask his point of view on the matter, only to dismiss the idea very quickly and ending up feeling appalled with himself for even letting the thought enter his system. It didn't much help the situation that there was nothing for him to do that he could put his mind to - no cases ongoing, no puzzles to solve - except, of course, his own. So Sherlock spent his time wandering around the flat, not being able to concentrate much on anything, getting more and more frustrated with his own incapability to function.

But then, after some time, as every now and then his eye would catch a memory of John -a sweater, a letter with his name on it, a pack of his favourite tea or something alike - and he would feel a pang of melancholy, the simple realisation of the mistake he had made started to dawn on him.

And when the dreams came - strong, vivid dreams about John, some of them ordinary and even mundane, some of them sexual, so painstakingly physical that for the first time in his adult life he woke up to an almost painfully strong erection - it hit Sherlock that he had indeed, to put it simply, been a bloody idiot and that he could under no circumstances live through the time left of his existence without John.

x

x

x

John knew the mistake he had made. His mistake, the very reason that had eventually forced him to make the decision and walk out on Sherlock, had been that he had accepted the responsibility over their relationship. It had been his call, as Sherlock had made clear, and by John making the choice for him - for them - Sherlock hadn't been forced to deal with his anxieties, to look into the reasons behind them and possibly work with them. The change in the nature of their relationship had brought about an abundance of experiences, feelings and difficulties neither of them had faced before - the difference was that John had been willing and able to deal with them whereas Sherlock hadn't, and by accepting the responsibility as his, John had allowed, even encouraged, Sherlock succumbing into the state he had.

John understood now, or at least he thought he did, how it might have felt for Sherlock, or how he had justified his own actions to himself. They had both wanted what had taken place, that much was clear and John knew Sherlock knew it too; but the inevitable issues that come along with such a decision probably felt to Sherlock as if they were being imposed on him. Sherlock hadn't  _asked_  for them, or their relationship, after all, merely accepted John's decision, and with that he had probably felt justified in letting the anxiety take him over.

It was childish of Sherlock, of course it was. And yet John wasn't so surprised by his behaviour, not any more when the pain of parting had changed from cutting and tearing to a dull throbbing; a man so complex and eccentric - how could he have  _not_  behaved the way he did, after being given the open option to do so?

And it had been John who gave him that option; and this, he knew, was his mistake. One he couldn't fix, for it wasn't in his control.

For a long time after he had left, John thought he saw Sherlock everywhere. The lean, tall frame, wild hair, straight posture - but it never was Sherlock, and when he waited his elevated pulse to calm down again John always felt a bit foolish for letting himself to get so nervous, as well as sad that it in fact hadn't been him. John didn't exactly know how he _would_  have felt or behaved had he actually ran into Sherlock; there was simply too much between them, so many meanings and levels and tones in their relationship that an ordinary "how-have-you-been" conversation just wouldn't have done it and the prospect if anything else beyond that made John almost terrified.

This was because at first John was afraid that if he would accidentally cross paths with the man he had loved (and still did, beyond his own comprehension) he would break, reach out to him, touch him - as there had been moments, especially during the first nights alone when John would have done _anything t_ o feel Sherlock's lips, hands, scent - and he feared that if he saw Sherlock it would be too much for his self-control to take and that he would make a mistake, try to revive something that wasn't for him to revive. John didn't exactly avoid the places where it could have been likely to bump into his former lover, but he didn't seek out those places either; he reasoned that it would be better if he just tried to go on with his life as he had before even meeting Sherlock - and at the same time John knew that it was a task next to impossible, that there never would be such a moment in his life anymore where the knowledge of Sherlock's existence wouldn't be somewhere in his consciousness. The John Watson that had been before Sherlock Holmes was no more.

This was something he needed to accept; but it naturally made moving on slightly difficult.

John knew he would most likely eventually meet Sherlock by accident somewhere. After the immediate pain and almost unbearable longing caused by the separation had passed and he had managed to numb himself into a state of reasonable functionality, he planned for it - imagined different possible scenarios, how he would react, what he would do and more essentially, what he wouldn't do - until he felt the situation might be within his capability to handle. He wanted to be ready, to be able to control himself in the same way he knew Sherlock could - would.

And then, when he one day  _did_  bump into Sherlock, it was so sudden and unexpected that John didn't have time to be even surprised, much less prepared.

x

x

John was on his way home from the clinic. It had been a relatively long day, at least figuratively speaking - lots of patients, not all of them easy cases, and he was tired even if it wasn't that late. He thought about taking the tube but then decided otherwise; the evening was quite beautiful and the promise of the upcoming spring was still lingering in the air.

He had been walking some ten minutes when he had an odd feeling, like someone would have been observing him; an undefined, penetrating hunch of being watched. John glanced around, slightly alert, but noticed nothing out of the ordinary - - just the few random people walking on the pavement in front of and behind him, minding their own business. Dismissing his unease as reminiscent of a stressful day he continued making his way towards his new flat, a small studio not far from the clinic - unimpressive and dull, very much like his life.

John walked in his thoughts, thinking whether to get take-away or fix something to eat from what he had in the fridge, as a man, taller than him, dressed in a long, black overcoat, suddenly stepped right in front of him from behind the corner on John's right-hand side. They collided but not that hard as John hadn't been exactly racing; either way, the bump was, in its suddenness, enough to throw him off balance.

"Oh, sorry, I didn't.." Before he had time to finish the sentence John's consciousness was already telling him that there was a familiarity, the height of the other man, his weight, posture, how his body had felt when it had pressed against his own -

And then John glanced into the face of the man in front of him but it was only to confirm what he already knew.

Sherlock looked like he always did, tall and dark and his eyes so intense - and for a second John felt a very strong rush of emotion - nervousness and exhilaration and sheer panic - and he realized somewhere in the back of his head that his hands were shaking in the jacket pockets they were stuffed in. But no matter the scale of feelings that were battling inside of him, John didn't look away, didn't step back but remained there, very still and calm to the outside, and met Sherlock's gaze with an equal strength and solidity that the pale eyes directed at him held.

Some time later, when Sherlock himself reflected back on those very seconds, he found it very difficult to explain or describe what he had thought or felt. He had planned it, of course, running into John as he had (something he would never admit) - and still the actual moment had caught him off guard. To see John standing in front of him, close enough to touch, feeling his eyes on him - it was overwhelming for his analytic mind, so unused to processing emotions, and he almost flinched.

Almost.

Then, with a voice that from anybody else's mouth would have sounded hesitant, he said, "I'm on my way to Soho, there is an interesting case of what appears to be a triple murder." Just like that, like the tide of events between them had never flowed at all; but for Sherlock, this was the only way he could do this, to make the effort, to accept the responsibility which was his. He would never be a man of words, would never find the way to talk about his inner world, his feelings and desires and fears - some things were beyond his capability. But he could do this his way, he knew he could, because he both wanted and needed to; the Sherlock he had been before John and the Sherlock without John were no longer what he wanted to be.

Sherlock shifted his posture a bit and glanced somewhere behind John's back, as if looking for a reassurance, then locked his eyes again with John's. The look in his clear eyes was very solid, and at the same time so bare; the openness of Sherlock's expression almost made John startle for he had never seen him exposing himself like this.

There was a moment of silence which felt like a lifetime. Had somebody been observing the situation from afar it would have seemed like a relatively ordinary, casual meeting of two acquaintances, if not for the fact that the two men were standing just a few inches closer to each other than is usually customary in everyday communication. The setting sun cast its last rays on them, the dying light making way to the quickly rising chilliness of the early spring night. And then a question, voiced so quietly and softly that it was impossible to hear for anybody else except the shorter man of the two, and incapable of rising such a rush of emotion in anyone else.

"Would you come with me?"

John swallowed. His heartbeat all over his body was so strong it almost felt intrusive, his heart pumping wildly in his every vein, so hard he was sure it would burst out of his chest. Would he be making the same mistake all over again?

Could he _not_ make it?

When the answer, barely audible, left his lips he knew that was it; there was no return, no second guesses, no what ifs. No regrets.

Before the first step on a new path the last one on the old one must be taken.

.

.

 

FIN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the support, I hope you have enjoyed reading this story half as much as I did writing it x


End file.
